


And On the Third Day

by footlooseandfancybe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Brief mention of incest, Cultural Appropriation, F/M, M/M, Racism, Slurs, Ugh, World War II, i don't know why i even started writing this, i'm not gonna go into detail, i'm not sure about the non-con part yet, land appropriation, stolen land, this is totally a work in progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/footlooseandfancybe/pseuds/footlooseandfancybe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as i'm sure we all know, hogan's heroes is an incredibly inaccurate depiction of WWII POW camps. but the whole captain america crossover part kinda throws everything out the window.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. The Sordid Truth

The truck jostled along the pitted dirt road, startling Andrew Carter once more from his unhappy reverie. The two S.S. agents eyed him and the nine other passengers in the back of the truck beadily. Carter looked back under lowered lids, not wishing to attract their attention. Both guards’ incredibly shiny boots and weapons gave off the feeling of being well used and well loved— and not just for protecting their owners.

Carter looked around instead at his fellow passengers. No scenery watching to be had, as the truck had its rear canvas flap rolled down and another soldier riding on the top. Whatever region they were passing through, it was important, or it was dangerous. Or both. He could however, hear the other two trucks that comprised the caravan. More prisoners of war, bound for god knew what Luft Stalag.

He sat in the seat closest to the hitch, and so only had one neighbor: an English man, decked in the blues of the R.A.F. The uniform was inordinately dirty, the grime seeming to be ground directly into the fibers of the cloth, but the man himself was clean and well presented, black hair neatly combed, and oblong hat perched smugly and proudly on his head. Carter could almost smell the soap.

“Knew a sweet little tart of an adjutant in the last prison camp. Did she ever know where the soap was,” the man spoke with a smirk. The words seemed to roll off his tongue, smooth and confident to the last vowel. The accent sounded cockney, but something about how he hung on to the o’s and clipped the r’s gave Carter the impression the man was from somewhere a little different from London.

“Portsmouth’s me home town. Mum a seamstress, Dad a fisherman. The name’s Newkirk, Peter.” He held out a hand.

“Halten Sie Ihre Hande weg von ihm!” One of the guards barked. The whole truck froze, like rabbits in a set of headlights. Newkirk scowled at the guard and slowly lowered the hand. Carter was fairly sure none of the prisoners understood German, but the animosity was clearly directed towards the Englishman.

“Olright, keep yer bloomin’ knickers straight, I wasn’t pullin’ a gun out. Jesus.” The guard gave him that special look back, the one they reserved especially for prisoners of war: I have power, and you don’t. I’m a real soldier, you’re worse than a civilian now. How does that feel?

Newkirk balled his hands into fists, but said no more, fixing his eyes on a spot of canvas above the head of the prisoner across from him.

“I’m Andrew. Carter, that is. I’m from Virginia. ‘Old Dominion’,” Carter gave a little laugh, hoping to lighten the mood. It didn’t. A little crease formed in Newkirk’s forehead. The rest of the truck just ignored him. They may have all been stuck in the same situation, but that didn’t mean they had to make nice.

“We live on a land holding, called Kehowe. It’s the bastardization of the Powhatan word Keshowse, which means ‘sun’. My great-great-great-great grandfather actually got along with the Indians. Called them clever sons of dogs, but he—“

“Ai down’t want a hist’ry lesson, ‘Carter’. Shut yor trap until we get to wherever it is they’re bleedin’ takin’ us!” Newkirk glared at the younger man. Carter looked reproachfully back.

“Just thought it might take our minds off—“

“CARTER!” Now the whole truck chorused it, followed by some choice curses. The other guard, who hadn’t spoken, slammed the butt of his machine gun, which was peculiarly iron plated, on the floor of the truck. It got silent very quickly.

“Vahn moar wurd, and youh dragged by truck,” the guard announced. His voice was somewhere between an avalanche and an earthquake.

The journey concluded silently, twenty rather tense minutes later. A turn that would put a bucking bronco to shame, and the truck slowed and idled.

The prisoners glanced at each other, straining to hear the words exchanged by the driver. Not much could be discerned over the screech of the opening gates. It was a hideous sound, akin to nails on a chalkboard. Even Newkirk, Carter observed, looked a little pale under his neatly parted hair.

The guards carefully got to their feet, balancing themselves to match the swaying of the truck. One made his way to the tailgate, the other stayed in the back, covering his partner and the driver.

“Whan zeh truck stop, don’t mohve. We say whan youh mohve.”

“Certainly ‘as a way with words, don’t ‘e?” Newkirk muttered to Carter, shifting slightly in his seat. Carter just sat there, dread piling up in his stomach, waiting for the moment when the canvas was whisked up.

The truck stopped smoothly, as it was a newer model. Several seconds later, broad daylight flooded into the dark. Carter squinted, trying to not let his eyes water. He saw Newkirk in his peripheral throw up a hand. The rest of the men groaned, mumbling their irritation.

“Naohw, youh mohve.” He gestured at Carter with his gun. Carter pulled his rucksack from beneath the bench, slung it over his shoulder, and fumbled his way down from the truck, nearly slipping on the way.

“Bewegen!” Carter scowled up at the guard, stumbling backward away from the truck. He looked around. The trucks were parked in a fenced-in section, with several buildings on the far side. From what Carter could see, this was only a small portion of what was to become their ‘home away from home’. To his left, and through several layers of fencing and quite a bit of barbed wire, lay the rest of the camp. Several prisoners stood in the larger yard, looking very much like cold, miserable little sparrows all huddled together.

He felt a pang of sympathy for them, despite the fact that he was in the exact same predicament, only on the other side of the fence for now.

Carter turned back around to observe the trucks being unloaded. All three stood in a row, regurgitating the prisoners to stand in huddled groups as well, though far more rebellious looking groups than the current inmates did. Beyond the trucks was about thirty yards, and then a forty foot tall fence, topped with at least two coils of barbed wire; two guard towers loomed, fifty feet from each other, covering the entire small enclosure. Carter’s palms grew sweaty—only ninety feet to the dense forest, only ninety feet to freedom—could he try it—

“Lov’ly day for internment, what?” This loud pronouncement was followed by a slap on Carter’s back, jolting him from his panicking. Feeling the powerful grip on his shoulder and fingers digging into the flesh there, he looked up into Newkirk’s eyes. They glittered fiercely, sending a message loud and clear: don’t even think about it, you daftie. Carter could practically feel the breath being hissed in his ear, the English epithet meant in every capacity it represented.

“Uh, uh yeah. Sure, Newkirk. It’s great.” He shook the man’s hand off and looked morosely away from the outer fence, going back to studying the pen they all inhabited now. The cluster of buildings was small, but did not look pleasant. Beyond the barriers, in the rest of the camp, barracks stretched out in organized rows, all squat, brown, and sharp in a distinctly militaristic way. Guard towers popped up like weeds every hundred feet or so.

“At least the scenery is decent,” a man commented a few feet away. He was American as well, and also staring at the fence. Newkirk took a step forward, but Carter beat him to it.

“We have somethin’ like this back in Virginie. Except less pine trees.” Carter let his voice carry, and the man started. The American turned to find Newkirk staring at him.

“Where do you hail from?” Carter continued in a friendly tone, pulling Newkirk back by the elbow. The man was medium height, maybe around twenty-seven years old, but still all wrists and neck, the muscles and fat looking as though they were pulled too tightly over his frame.

“Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I hear the winters here are even worse than in the U.P.” the man continued fretfully. Newkirk looked at the man as though he were crazy.

“Sorry, where exactly, is that?”

The Milwaukee man looked at the Englander like he couldn’t believe his words either.

“The upper peninsula? Michigan? The mid-west? Do you have any grasp on geography?” the man’s tone became supercilious.

“Naow does it sound like Ei’m from the states, mate? Ei’m frum Portsmouth. Ahnd of corse winter in Gearmany is bloody owful, only thing to expect from fascists.” The man rolled his eyes, finally turning his full attention on them.

“You can’t blame ideohlogies for the wether. That’s just not scientif’clly sound!”

“Ei don’t give a damn ‘bout the weathah, Ei just know the Krauts are damn fascists!”

Carter left them to bickering, looking over the crowd of about twenty men, ringed by Germans, guns, and steel. It was strange, three trucks should mean around thirty prisoners, but it was a distinctly smaller number milling about.

“Hey, Newkirk, what d’you suppose was in that last truck?”

Breaking off a particularly nasty retort midsentence, he glanced over his shoulder, scanning the area, searching to affirm what Carter had said.

“Yo’re right. Not neearly enough pris’ners.” The Brit whistled a bright little tune, eyebrows raised. “Guess we ‘ave an officer ‘mong us, gentlemen.”

Carter looked toward the little buildings on the far side of the enclosure.

“You suppose that’s him?” The three men looked as well, as a group of officers strode towards them. One fat and waddling, one thin and gaunt, one obviously decked in the coffee brown of the United States Air Corp, of medium height and build.

“Well, ‘e’s definit’ly not going to be Goering, is he? Suppose the other one could be, yah?” Newkirk commented, elbowing the Wisconsin native in the ribs. The man ignored both his comments, but Carter snickered in spite of himself. All three were followed by six soldiers and a scurrying, ferrety looking adjutant.

“ACHTUNG! Bewegen! Bewegen, Schweinen, jetzt!” the guards began shouting and gesturing with their rifles and machine guns, herding the prisoners away from the trucks and over toward the group of officers.

Carter stumbled along, buffeted by the other men who were considerably stouter than he was, all five-foot ten skinny chicken wire that he was. He grimaced, wishing he hadn’t been cursed with such little body mass. Newkirk, to Carter’s surprise, actively fought the crowd in order to stay by his side, giving a judicious elbow or a solid pinch here and there to move things along.

“Halt! Das Schweigen ist der Kommandant zu sprechen!” more shouting in German. The prisoners bumped into each other more violently now, feeling the panic of a caged and threatened animal, mixing shouts of English and French in with the German.

Carter glanced wildly around, clinging to his knapsack and trying his best to stick to Newkirk. He didn’t protest when a particularly forceful surge toward the gate nearly knocked him off his feet, and the Englishman grabbed his arm.

Carter looked and—the soldier—hand to holster—a strange man’s head, obscuring vision—the gun appeared, pointed at the sky—more random faces—he panicked, and—

BANG

The next thing Carter knew was that his face was pressed into the ground, cowering away from the awful, echoing, ear-drum-splitting noise. Newkirk’s hand still gripped his arm like a vice, also crouched down, practically shielding him. More shots sounded off until Carter wasn’t there on the cold muddy prison camp ground, but far and away, praying for it all to stop—

“Carter geit up! Yah daft man, off the ground—we have to move!” he heard the fear in the man’s voice and managed to peer up at him.

“I—“ but it was too late. Rough, unforgiving hands grasped them by their collars and hauled them to their feet. The guard swung him around, and marched him towards the other prisoners, now looking much more like defeated, bedraggled starlings on a miserable April morning.

Two bodies were lying on the ground. One was the Wisconsin man; he wasn’t moving. The other writhed silently, clutching the side of his head and shoulder. Carter felt his stomach clench, but refused his body’s urge to purge himself. Those memories were best left locked up.

“Bleib hier, verdammt! Ahnd leesten to Kommandantur,” the guard growled, and shoved Carter roughly at the huddle. Newkirk followed, protesting quietly:

“Olright, take it easy, take it easy. Weren’t the ones to stahrt it, ya know.” Carter took deep shuddering breaths, trying to reacquaint himself with his surroundings.

The ascetic, wrinkled, balding man that was the camp director surveyed the group, lip curling in disdain. The monocle shoved in his eye gave the impression of a particularly myopic rat, sniffing around for a morsel of food.

“Prisoners ohf War, I am Oberst Klink ohf thisz Stalag Luft 13. The ‘stunt’ you have just tried to pull will not be tolerated in my cahmp. For thisz I will take one ohf every two ohf you and thohse men will spend thihrty dayse confinement.” Utter silence greeted this pronouncement.

“You are standing in the correctional facilities of the cahmp. Here you will be processed, and assigned to a baracke. Thiss,” Klink gestured carelessly over his shoulder.

“Iss Sahrgeant Schultz, ouhr Oberfeldwebel.” The man snapped to a clumsy but precise salute. Klink didn’t even acknowledge it.

Carter noticed Newkirk fidgeting with his bag straps, staring at their soon-to-be commanding officer. He couldn’t care less what the man was like personally, but he supposed it would mean a great deal in the long-term ease of living in the camp. He hoped they at least didn’t have some pencil-pushing desk officer without a dream of how to give real orders.

“My adjutant, Obergefrieter Langenscheidt. And this,” here Klink’s voice took on a nasty, mocking tone, heavy with sarcasm.

“Is youhr Commanding Officer, Colonel Robert E. Hogan.” Klink gave the other man a sarcastic salute, which the Colonel returned with brisk efficiency.

“I believe, Kommandant, that as Senior Officer, I have the right to address my men. Can’t say that I’m as riveting a speaker as you are, but, you know how it goes.” The man pitched his voice perfectly, just loud enough for the prisoners to hear, but quietly enough that the guards who understood English couldn’t catch what he’d said. Murmurs ran around the group, accompanied with some snickering. Carter glanced nervously about, the guards stirring as well, unsure of what the American officer had said. Newkirk merely folded his arms over his chest.

“Waitin’ for the other shoe to drop. This bugger bettr not try anythin’ funny,” he muttered. Klink looked as though he had tasted something sour.

“First, if you don’t mind, giving those on the ground a hand?” Colonel Hogan locked eyes with the much older man, not giving an inch. Only after a few seconds, Klink blinked and turned sharply away, motioning at several guards to pick the fallen up. In all this time, the man from Wisconsin hadn’t moved an inch.

“Thank you, very much Kommandant. Men, I’d like to tell you words of encouragement, words of fire and freedom,” the Colonel paused for the mutters to die down.

“But we have a new role in this war, and that is to provide a source of morale for our folks at home. Reassure them, that we are in no danger, are plenty comfortable, and are proud of the fighting we have done.” If there had been any wind left in the sails of the men, it was definitely gone now. Shoulders slumped, toes scuffed the ground, the scowls grew.

“As your commanding officer, I would personally like to commend you all for your bravery and fortitude in a situation like this. And in the immortal words of John Dickinson, ‘united we stand, divided we fall’. We shall continue to honor, respect, and serve our great Alliance: England, France, and the United States of America.” At these words, Colonel Hogan snapped to attention, back board straight, eyes riveted on the middle distance.

As one unit, the soldiers came to attention as well, neither a frown nor a grumble upon their lips. Several sets of eyes even looked suspiciously moist. Although that might have been from suppressed laughter at the sight of Commandant Klink’s face. It was a picture of acute embarrassment, nervousness, and maybe even, a hint of nostalgia. The monocle didn’t help anything.

Hogan dropped the salute and turned and nodded at the commandant. Colonel Klink looked less than pleased at the deceptively encouraging speech. He shouted orders to the guards, in German, and the last thing Carter clearly remembered was Newkirk hissing in his ear and slipping away to the other side of the group.

“Incresis the odds, mate. See ya soon.” And then he was standing amidst a sea of faces. The prisoners were bundled through room after room; questioned, poked, prodded, deloused. That was definitely something Carter could forget.

Then he was standing in a barrack, clutching his knapsack, totally alone. The brown drab walls were bare and forbidding. Carter carefully walked, steps slow and creaking, to the bunk at the opposite wall. He unrolled the mattress, grimacing at the lumpy, damp, mould smelling slab of fabric.

He sat, staring at the door, willing for someone to walk through it. Prison camps were supposed to be crowded and noisy, weren’t they? Carter couldn’t wait for it to start. It meant the voices and memories in his head had a chance of being stifled.

Carter, was in hell.


	2. Chapter 2

An indeterminate amount of time later, the door swung open with a click and a creak.

“Carter?” it was the colonel. Newkirk hovered behind him, obviously wary about something.

“Yes sir?” he winced at the unnaturally high pitch of his voice. Newkirk snaked a hand through the doorway and flicked the light switch. Carter blinked in the sudden glare.

“Why on erth were you sittin’ in the dahrk, Cahrter?”

“Just felt like it, I guess. Sorry.“ He got up, joints and muscles protesting from being tense for too long. Hogan regarded him narrowly. Carter could feel the man’s eyes picking him apart and adding a few of the missing pieces.

“Sir.” He amended after a beat. His brain seemed to still be stuck in neutral. Nothing new these days.

The Colonel snorted, and crossed the barrack to his office, his pack slung casually over his shoulder. Carter looked hopefully at Newkirk, who kept watching the officer until the door clicked shut and the thump of things being set down could be heard.

“Is he alright, Newkirk? I mean, is he on the do-gooder list?” he hissed anxiously at the corporal. The man shot him an inscrutable look, one Carter felt he distinctly did not want to interpret. Newkirk turned away from him, and chose the top bunk, nearest the door, throwing his duffle on top of the bunk bed. The sad shambling piece of furniture shook woefully, creaking under the violent usage.

“Eihm a wee bit wohrried more‚ bout why you got the collywobbles out on parade block and why you was sittin‘ here like you was waitin‘ fer the shrink to come in?“ Carter couldn’t suppress the twitch at the word ‘shrink‘. There wasn’t going to be a pretty way out of this.

“I’d rather not talk about it.” Carter shuffled his feet a bit, feeling the relief that company brought, pushing the memories and unwanted thoughts away. Maybe he could survive this.

The silence dragged on, before Carter realized that Newkirk was probably looking at him.

The corporal was lying on his bunk, head propped up on his hand, studying Carter. The man laughed a little after a few seconds, a quiet chuckle.

“That’s a bit moor than hilarious, seein’ as you couldn’t shet yor mouth pract’cly the whole wahy he-ar.” At that Carter scowled, remembering the Corporal’s harsh rebuke.

“What did you want me to do? Let you get your sorry buttocks dragged ahl the way here frohm kingdom come, yah?” the man was a veritable mind-reader. Carter shook his head.

“Yeah you’re right. I still don’t want to talk about it.” Newkirk shrugged and rolled onto his back.

“Not my problem. Yah only got the next few years of yer life ta do some thinkin’.” At that, vertigo swept over Carter. All those long months and years, stretched out before him, the feeling he’d always gotten after his pop let him handle the pressurized hose; a vibration, dull and insistent in his hands and shoulders, the world stretched and pulled thin in his eyes.

But no. There would be enough noise, enough distraction. Everything would be fine.

“So, the Colonel, is he. I dunno. Okay?” He said, trying to distract himself. Newkirk actually started laughing at that. Long, loud, genuine laughter.

“You might think I’m crazy, or touched in the head, but it’s a real question, and I for one don’t want to be—” but Newkirk waved him silent over his gales of laughter.

“Eit’ll be fine, Cahrter. Got nuthin’ to worry about. Cournal ‘Ogan won’t let us down—”

“Aw, what a nice vote of confidence, Newkirk, I’m flattered,” Carter whirled around to see the man in question standing in the doorway of his quarters, arms crossed, tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth. Newkirk sat up so quickly he hit his head on the low, sagging ceiling.

“Cripes! Buggery, fuck, jaysus……” Carter winced at his new mate’s curses, but saluted the Colonel.

“Excuse my lapse of respect before sir, it won’t happen again. I didn’t mean to—” Colonel Hogan waved him silent.

“Yes you did, but I won’t blame you. I did the same thing when I arrived in London last fall. Admittedly, I was talking about a General, but it’s the same in every level and every branch, am I right?” Carter nodded silently.

“I mean, yes sir.” Carter mumbles. Newkirk was now glaring daggers, but gave a, albeit mocking, salute. The colonel gave a nod.

“Right. I’ve got a job you two, since you’ve been getting on so famously.” The curiosity must have shown on his face because Colonel Hogan replied:

“Newkirk was just telling me about your riveting journey together. An episode for the memoirs to be sure. But your chattiness and Newkirk’s talents are perfect for what I’ve got in mind. Spend your next few days getting to know anyone and everyone here. Find who’s got the loose lips, the sticky fingers besides Newkirk, that is,” here the corporal scowled again.

“Especially among the other prisoners.” Carter runkled his forehead in confusion.

“But don’t we trust—” Carter never got the rest of his question out, as the barrack door swung open and several more men began to file in, accompanied by shouts in German and the bitter rush of April air. The three men stood huddled in the doorway, dripping water onto the already damp floor, casting dark looks around their new home.

“Did it start raining outside then?” Carter finally broke the silence, knowing he sounded inane and foolish, but desperate for the awkward silence to go away. Newkirk sniggered around an also damp cigarette, listlessly attempting to light it. The shortest man in the group of newcomers stared at him.

“No no, you see, wee deecided to geet, eh, what you say, baptized, before coming here, eh?” a bouncing, raw, and irritable French accent came pouring out of the man, filing up the small space even more. Carter’s eyebrows went up. Newkirk quirked his, then spoke around the cig:

“We-ell, seein’as youhr Franch, Eih can see ‘ow that’s a distinct poss’bility,” Newkirk drawleld. The man muttered what was very likely an unflattering curse in French under his breath and stomped over to the bunk in front of the colonel’s door.

The other two hustled over to the far wall, away from the other three.

“Welcome to the party, gentlemen.” Colonel Hogan said, but gave Carter a slight wink and shot Newkirk a look. The man wasn’t joking around. Carter drew in a deep breath.

It was a little terrifying, to say the least, having a new man in charge, a new job to do. Granted, it wasn’t a very important job, but Carter didn’t want to be that boy, the fuck-up, the know-nothing. That gets real old real fast. As his pop always said: if you can’t see the idiot in the room, it’s you.

Carter sat back down on his bunk and rubbed sweaty palms along his thighs. So far, he couldn’t see any of these men being idiots, especially the Frenchman. He hadn’t been dumb enough to really reply to Newkirk’s jab in front of the Colonel. Sure, he’d probably get back at him some way or another, but later.

“So, what do they call yah, Franchie?” Newkirk drawled, cigarette smoke winding its way across the ceiling. Carter looked over at the bunk, its new occupant vigorously attempting to flatten the mattress pad and even out the lumps. He paused in his attempts to shoot the Englishman another withering glare and to hang his scarf up.

“Lebeau.” It was silent a moment or two. Newkirk didn’t say anything, damn him, so Carter spoke up once more.

“Where you from? I mean, in France, I get that you’re from there, but, Parrus? Maybe?” Lebeau scowled at him and let loose another torrent of French, undoubtedly curses.

“Ere naow, if yor goin’ to insult the man, leastways do it in ‘is own language.” Newkirk sat up again, more slowly this time, artfully slumping his shoulders to avoid the ceiling. Lebeau glared up at him, then looked back at Carter.

“Ei called you ze fuc-wit son of a dog whore who eez too nozi for his own good. Zere. Appi?” the last word was uttered as a snarl. Newkirk held up his hands in surrender. Carter glared at the irate man.

“I’d ‘preciate it if you didn’t refer to my mother in that way. Go ahead and be pissy, that’s fine, I’ll just stay out of your way.” Carter said stiffly.

“Aw, I dunno man. He coulda been referring to your old man. Whores come in all shapes and sizes, ammiright?” this was spoken in a thick Chicago accent, from another man settled in the corner bunk. Chicago’s bunkmate remained steadfastly quiet. The man himself had quite the shit-eating grin, and he was fairly sure he was being made fun of. But it made the Frenchman back down more. He even smirked a bit.

Carter could have sworn he saw Newkirk tense up, but when he looked, the man was calmly puffing on his smoke, eyes at half mast, observing everything. It struck Carter that he and Newkirk were already carrying out the Colonel’s orders.

“The names Mills. I’ll tell ya where I’m from—”

“Chicago. Born and bred.” Carter interrupted dully, turning away from the group to carefully unzip his pack and start pulling things out.

“Jeehosephat, the kid’s right. South side. I’ll be damned, kid, you’re good. I’ll admit it. Sorry about the crack I made, about your dad. You were raised sharp,” Carter looked and saw some grudging respect on the man’s face. He slid his gaze over to Lebeau and saw just a hint of shame on his.

“Certainly can’t say the same about everyone here.” He knew it came out trite and petty, but he didn’t care. Besides, Lebeau just turned away and began pulling his own things out and grumbling about the lack of footlockers.

“That’s going on the list of requests for Klink,” what was the man, a ninja? A ghost? He had made not a sound, except he was suddenly standing by the woodstove in the center of the barrack. Newkirk gave a choked off laugh at this pronouncement. Hogan paused.

“I’m sorry corporal, is there something funny I should know about?” Newkirk cleared his throat gruffly.

“Just, ‘is name, sir. Gave me a fit o’ the giggles.” The corner of the colonel’s mouth twitched ever so slightly.

“Some of us are just born unlucky, Newkirk.” The words strangely wiped the smirk off Newkirk’s face. Conversation halted though, as another, larger group of prisoners filed in, bringing more rain and miserable faces in.

“All of you can think up a necessity you may think is lacking and mention it to me before the week is out, and I’ll ensure the Commandant hears your requests.”

“Do girls count, sir?” it was Mills again. Some men chuckled, some groaned. The colonel’s face remained impassive.

“I’m sure we all wish it, Mills; I’ll try and see if the U.S.O have a couple dancers they don’t need at the moment.” The barrack laughed again, the newcomers shuffling off to claim bunks. Someone behind Carter cleared his throat. He turned and looked up...and up, and up.

“This bunk taken?” Carter shook his head mutely. The negro in front of him towered, face carefully shuttered. Carter cleared his throat.

“No, uh, no.” the man moved towards the ladder.

“Sure you don’t want the lower? Wouldn’t want you to hit your head on the ceiling. Newkirk’s done it once already.” The man gave a small smile, but Carter saw Newkirk flip him off behind the newcomer’s back.

“Nah. I like to be high as possible off the ground. I can see things better that way. The name’s Jim Kinchloe. Call me Kinch.” The man dropped his bag and started up the ladder. The frame creaked and shook unsettlingly. Kinch froze, in understandable panic.

“S’okay. It’ll hold up.” Carter tries to reassure the man. His new bunkmate muttered something about shitty German engineering, and finished climbing.

“So that’s why you became a fly-boy then? You like being off the ground?” Carter asked quietly, even though there was enough noise in the barrack to out-scream an air-raid siren. Enough to give the man an out to not answer the question.

“My daddy flew a courier plane. Took me up for the first time when I was ten. Nothin’ quite like flyin’, ya know?” Carter snorted at the irony of praising the exact thing that had landed them in this hell-hole of a faux vacation.

“Yeah. Definitely. So, Milwaukee?” Kinch’s face appeared, his upside down frown looking eerily like a smile.

“How’d you figure that one?” Carter just shrugged. He and his sister had always dreamed about going places, seeing new things. Meeting new people.

“My big brother, before he got drafted, worked at the pump station in town. Lotsa people movin’ through. We live pretty darn close to Arlington, so. You start noticin’ voices and accents and piecing together where they’ve come from.” Kinch nodded slowly, his head disappearing back onto the top bunk. Carter glanced up to see Newkirk give him the victory sign.

Well. At least he was getting something done right.

“Will you meese eet?” Carter jumped at the sudden intrusion by Lebeau, even though the question wasn’t aimed at him. He could feel Kinch’s silence.

“Well, don’t we all have something we’re gonna miss? I miss my friend’s homemade wine, and my sister bitching about medical school, and yeah, I miss flying already. What about you?” Carter raised a discreet eyebrow at Newkirk, who shrugged back. The two were just an unlikely pair to get along. Apparently opposites did attract.

Lebeau laughed a bit.

“Call mee straange, but my Amelie’s singing. She ees an actres, but at her ‘ome, she singss mor beautifully than anysing else in the world.” It was silent a moment.

“That’s not such a strange thing to miss.” Carter said quietly. Lebeau gave him a guarded look.

“Yees, weel, when you lihve in Amereeca, eet iss all about what they look like, iss eet not?” Lebeau now looked accusingly at the rest of the barrack, full of chattering, shouting, semi-wrestling American soldiers. Carter shrugged weakly.

“I wouldn’t know a thing about girls, seein’ as the only one I got to know real well was my sis. Despite what you think about Virginia, we’re not violatin’ the lord’s word in those ways—”

“God, shat up Cahrter! I still don’t want to know buggery shite about Virg’nia!” Newkirk interrupted good-naturedly, flicking his cigarette butt at the sergeant. Lebeau actually smiled and Kinch gave a soft snort.

Maybe. Just maybe. This was going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as i'm sure we all know, hogan's heroes is an incredibly inaccurate depiction of WWII POW camps. but the whole captain america crossover part kinda throws everything out the window.


	3. Chapter 3

Well, no. It wasn’t okay. It was just like Kinch said. Everybody misses something.

Carter missed his full nights of sleep. Because if it wasn’t the midnight spot checks, it was the nightmares. If it wasn’t the nightmares, it was the other men’s nightmares. He missed the dark quiet of his old room under the eaves, the whistling of the wind through the willows and birch.

He and Newkirk spent their time nosing around, poking into corners and getting to know everyone. Well, Carter tried poking around, but the first time he got hauled away from a door and received a boot to the ass, Newkirk mumbled something about ‘blithering incompetent’ and Carter got hauled off yet again to talk to some other people. Carter finally realized that he was the frontman: while the guys were busy yakking at him, desperate for a willing ear, Newkirk was the one slipping in the real questions, poking into haversacks and lockers.

It was funny too, Newkirk let Carter do all the reporting, let him babble on and on, describing the encounters, the conversations, complaints, the daily battering delivered by the bored guards, the ever increasing audacity of Newkirk’s thefts, their portly and affable Oberfeldwebel. Schultz never failed to inspire incredulity in Carter, but Newkirk had given the man the nod. That always meant the person was what he appeared to be.

Which, Carter supposed, shouldn’t be so unbelievable. Not everyone was turned into heartless killers by wartime. Some people became even kinder because of it. Schultz never wanted to talk about anything other than his children, or his old job of toy making, before Hitler came along and decided a revolver factory would better serve the glorious Third Reich. The fact that he politely regarded both the Colonel and the men in general went a long way to convince Carter.

Or food. Carter was kind of itching to introduce Lebeau and the Oberfeldwebel, on the grounds that they revered food as their god practically. The Frenchman turned out to be an amateur chef, point of fact.

Admittedly, the Colonel gave Carter the heebie jeebies. The man always looked at him steadily, never blinking, while he gave the report. Probably using the same mind-reading powers Newkirk possessed, trying to figure out if he was lying. The officer was stealthy, rarely making a sound when he moved.

“Why do I always report to the Colonel, Newkirk? You could condense the information way better’n me, cause I’m pretty sure he don’t wanna hear ‘bout how stupid Anderson looks, or that idiotic joke Schultz told actually made me laugh,” when he’d repeated it for the colonel, he’d had to smother his giggles. That hadn’t been embarrassing at all. Now, Newkirk just laughed.

“Yeh down’t geht it, Cahter, that’s the ‘hole point of our job right now. Gettin’ the detales, before the real show starts. And youh, have a real knack fer drawin’ the gab out of these blokes.” Carter was a little lost.

“What kinda operation are you talking about? What’s going on?” Newkirk looked a little stony faced, but answered sergeant’s questions. Sort of.

“You’ll see soon enagh. Op’rations like this, see, down’t need solid fakts, they need the feel, the atmosphere, the emotion, the sent’ment behind the blokes around. How to play jus’ right on ev’ryone’s buttins, so’s to speak. Liek, whan a magician feels out ‘is crowd, how far he ken push the illus’ion.” Carter thought about Newkirk’s metaphors, then nodded.

“I just hope he figures that out real quick,” Newkirk gave him one of his half smirks and nodded in agreement.

The Colonel kept his word and the men now had foot lockers. Newkirk raised a brow, but didn’t comment.

“You must have one smooth tongue, sir, to get these so quick. Either that, or our lovely Commandant is an easy mark,” Kinch remarked, in his easy Midwest drawl. Hogan shrugged.

“When you’ve got the brains and the brawn of our Kommandant, it’s the little things that make him seem so human, isn’t it?” the barracks snickered in unison, even Lebeau, who still had a case of the sour grapes. Guess the Colonel was figuring everyone out really quickly.

Things were, if not normal, then status quo in the camp. Prisoners sometimes came and went, several out of Barracks 5. The new prisoners didn’t look any different to Carter, but Hogan and Newkirk exchanged The Nod after the Colonel met with each man.

Barracks 5 was built to hold fifteen people, with seven bunks and the Commanding Officer’s quarters. Emphasis on people, not soldiers. It was cramped living, barely enough room to turn around. But after a week of tripping and knocking things over, everyone stopped apologizing. They were all going to go hoarse if they kept it up, and no one wanted that.

Carter only memorized the names after several days had gone by and no one left or arrived again; that had been a memorable day.

He didn’t know how the Colonel swung it, but he pretty much got whichever prisoners to inhabit Barrack 5 that he wanted. Almost no questions asked. Schultz asked Hogan one day, when it was exercise time and Carter loitered nearby, in his ponderous voice “Youh’d think zis was youhr own Hofbrau or somezing. Ze way ze priz’ners com and goh.” Schultz chuckled mildly at his joke, but Hogan looked chagrined.

“Damn, Schultz, you figured us out.” The sergeant started and peered uncertainly at the Colonel.

“Whaat?” Hogan bounced on his heels, now looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“The Kommandant was so kind to grant our request of choosing our own barracks. Quite magnanimous really. It’s just, everyone wanted a taste of the beautiful view from Barracks 5, so we had to figure something out. Turns out cigarettes and chocolate do wonders for opening doors-literally.”

“Whell, iss zar a chance sat cigarette und choc-co-lat might vander into oszer handz?” The Oberfeldwebel asked anxiously. Hogan had shrugged carelessly, even winking at Carter’s gawping expression, not even pretending to not be listening in.

“Honestly Schultz, I imagine you’d enjoy far better rewards by reporting it, like, Klink’s high regard, no transfers, hell, maybe even a few days’ leave; but if it means that much to you, here’s something.” A candy bar in its nondescript Red Cross wrapper appeared as if by magic in the sergeant’s hands.

“I mean, you’re our friend though, right? You wouldn’t do anything like turn us in, right?” Schultz stammered something that sounded like danke and scurried off towards his quarters. Hogan waited until the man was out of eyesight, then turned to Carter, black eyes twinkling with mirth.

“I knew the men wanted to choose their own quarters, sir, but I never knew about the chocolate!”

“No need to sound indignant Carter, we’re only keeping the men who accepted assignment and refused the candy. Newkirk and I know how to run this.” Again with the mysterious connection with Newkirk. The two men had the bad habit of looking at each other whenever the other wasn’t looking, and it made Carter itch to know about it like none other.

“How do you know what all Newkirk can do, sir? If you don’t mind me asking.” His commanding officer’s face shut down. His eyes became like shutters on a house, but Carter caught a glimpse of something very much like fear before the light was extinguished.

“The corporal comes highly recommended. You’re dismissed, sergeant.” Carter scurried away, much like Schultz moments before. It was obvious whatever Newkirk and Hogan knew about each other, it was rather painful, and not subject for discussion. Carter grunted to himself, and resolved to find out anyway.

Later that day, Klink paid a visit to Barracks 5. He coldly announced that Hogan’s ‘lunatic scheme’ had gone on long enough. Wherever a prisoner was bunked at this very moment, he was to stay there, no protests, else that ‘dunkopf vouhld be spending quahlity tiyme in ze cooler’. Olson, who was in the process of surreptitiously hiding his half-filled haversack, abruptly sat down and tried to look very small, miming exaggerated looks of horror and terror whenever the Kommandant’s back was turned . It made Kinch, Carter, Lebeau, and Spiffing stifle laughter. Olson was definitely the funniest guy in the barracks. Newkirk shot them all exasperated looks.

And so Carter memorized the names, as such. Newkirk told him that their dog tags all checked out, so go right ahead. The British Corporal of course refused to tell him the other men’s names, forcing Carter to find out on his own. No matter. It was good practice. He knew he’d need all his cunning to ferret out whatever it was between Hogan and Newkirk. Well, maybe Kinch would help. He guessed their accents as well as he could, then offered his opinion to each man. All were duly impressed with the correct estimations.

The inhabitants of Barracks 5 were, as of February 3rd, 1942, were as follows:

U.S. Army Air Corps Colonel Robert E. Hogan: Carter really couldn’t pin down the Colonel’s accent. Always polished English, with a little Midwest here, some Californian there. He didn’t divulge much as to his talents, but according to Newkirk he was a master tactician and a ‘damn schemer that could swindle you outta yer lungs if he had half a mo’’. The only other thing Carter could think of was that his presence in the camp was completely uncharacteristic as well. Officers of Hogan’s rank went to special camps when they were captured.

Technical Sergeant Andrew Carter: He hadn’t mentioned it, but he had a double major in psychology and chemistry, from Duke he might add, and his brother taught him how to shoot pretty much anything that had a trigger.

Staff Sergeant James Kinchloe: Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The Barrack’s jack-of-all-trades: a trained radio operator, pilot, navigator, engineer, mechanic, and the list went on as the men found out a new trait practically every week.

Corporal Louis Lebeau: The closest Carter could pinpoint him was Paris. He turned out to be quite the friend of Kinch, the two making a comical sight when they walked across the yard.

RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk: Portsmouth, London, England. Newkirk showed him his own dog tag. Carter felt this meant a lot more than he knew what to do with.

Lieutenant Nelson Olson: The Bronx, New York, New York. His name was the subject of many jokes, and no one started more of them than Olson himself. He’d studied code breaking back in the States, also radio operation.

Corporal André Trévares: Turned out to be a French Jew from Argonne, and Carter couldn’t help but pity the poor bastard, but respected that he’d been with several groups of the Resistancé.

R.A.F Corporal Edward Spiffing: Born in Glasgow Scotland, educated in Austin Texas. Whose name came close second in the joking, and he joined in the fun with a put-upon English accent that Newkirk cuffed him ‘round the head for multiple times (he’d lost his home country accent rapidly in the American boarding school system); another chemist.

Lieutenant Blake Anderson: Oak Tree, Pennsylvania. The man had sloping shoulders and a rather bovine countenance, masking an education gained at MIT after a childhood spent in the mines surrounding his home.

Lieutenant Jackson Mills: The perennially insulting Chicagoan who Carter and Newkirk avoided like the plague but could throw a dart, and presumably a knife, like no one’s business.

Private First Class Carson Jones: Kinnakee, Kansas. Pretty surly, but knew his way around cars. He and Lebeau occasionally had in-depth discussions regarding racing cars in particular.

Private First Class Isaac Stapleton: Boise, Idaho. He liked talking to the guards, because he was completely fluent in German, and said he didn’t want to be out of practice; this put a little more faith in Newkirk and Hogan’s choices.

Private First Class Eugene Smith: Boulder, Colorado. The first time Carter met him, he was sure the only reason he was in Barrack 5 was because every outfit needed a ‘Smith’. But he turned out to be a doctor. The oldest soldier, older even than Hogan.

Private Second Class Sheridan Whitford: Peabody, Massachusetts. He made the barracks a significantly more cramped space. Was a regular soldier. Pleasant enough. Didn’t talk a whole lot.

This was a mental list, of course. They all had notebooks, sure, it was standard issue, but he thought it’d probably be better to keep the observations to himself.

One bunk remained stubbornly empty, the one beneath Newkirk’s perch. Someone would ask, at least once a week, who was coming, if it was a special agent, or if it was for emergencies. Colonel Hogan would remain tight lipped and offered various ridiculous answers, like Goering, or Eisenhower, or Bette Davis. It helped to lighten the mood. Which sometimes remained stubbornly tense.

Whatever Newkirk had been hinting at, the week before, was starting to grind its gears. Carter could feel it.

But it didn’t always help. Most days, it was a grim affair in Barracks 5. Carter was going on his third straight week with a split lip, and Stapleton winced often, like his ribs were sore. Probably cracked. Whitford tried his best to glare intimidatingly at the guards whenever one of their member stumped back inside with a new wound to lick, but they were the ones with the guns.

Kinch got the worst of it, being a black man. But he never shied away, never hesitated to end a scuffle. Carter caught glimpses in the showers of terrible bruising, purple and green and grey, boot marks, and half healed cuts decorating his ribs and abdomen. Carter asked him if he’d gone to the camp medic, or at least asked Smith for a diagnosis. Kinch had just laughed.

“Carter, there isn’t anything here that's gotta be diagnosed. This one,” he gestured at the individual marks, “is ignorance, this is prejudice, fear, mindlessness. Nothin’ I haven’t been on the receiving end of before. Smithie will tell me the same thing,” here the tall man scowled and yanked his jump suit on. Carter stood there, dumbfounded.

“Look, I didn’t mean—well shouldn’t you get some cream—or wrappings—or something?” Kinchloe paused his ablutions again.

“You’re not all wet, Carter. I shouldn’t have snapped. They’ll heal on their own, given time.” The man amended quietly. That pricked the stitches over the wound in Carter’s psyche, letting images spill out, for the first time since he’d gotten to the camp.

“No. Not everything does.” He left before he had to look at Kinch’s face.

“Listen up,” the barrack went silent. It certainly hadn’t been raucous before, just a friendly game of gin at the table, quiet conversations by the stove; a normal Monday night. But now it was quiet.

Dead silent.

“We have new orders. Some of you have had them since you first joined your respective military,” Carter looked at the C.O. with surprise. How could you have orders you didn’t even know about?

“It’s time to set them in motion. Operation Cuckoo is starting as of tonight. Most of you are fresh from combat, but I’m gonna tell you now, this is something entirely else. You’re going to be living a lie in a lie in a lie in your own life.” The colonel reached for the deck of cards that Newkirk was about to deal. Their fingers brushed, just ever so slightly, and maybe it was Carter’s imagination, maybe it wasn’t. He was, after all, the only one at the right angle to see it, from where he was perched on his bunk.

He could have sworn he saw the colonel brush his thumb along Newkirk’s wrist. But, that couldn’t mean anything. Could it? He’d have to ponder it later. Hogan had turned away to the stove and started speaking again.

“We are going to build our own Resistance outpost. Here. Inside the camp.” The Colonel’s words were met with more silence. Until the light bulb over Carter’s head blinked on.

“I get it. Like a cuckoo.” The whole barrack stared at Carter, but somehow that didn’t matter. For once, he wasn’t the idiot in the room. Even the colonel gave him a small smile and a nod.

“Yes. Carter does get it. We’re going to be the blow they never see coming. Ever. You are all on high alert. Permanently. But you have to go on living like nothing at all is happening. Is that clear?” a chorus of ‘yes sirs’ echoed in the small space.

“Good. Not a word breathed to anyone outside these walls unless I or Newkirk give it the go ahead, as he’s my information officer. That means,” here the Colonel swept the barracks with a ferocious look. His face didn’t distort or anything, grimace or twist. But his eyes glittered. It was a bit maniacal, but got the message clear across: you see my eyes like this, and you’re history.

“Anyone. Particularly other prisoners. Nothin’ more dangerous than one of our own knowing what we’re up to.”

“That’s real flattering, Colonel. Glad you have such faith in us-” Hogan’s empty palm slammed down on the table. Mills had the good grace to look guilty, though he didn’t start at the sound. Carter had, but no one commented on his jumpiness anymore. It just was there, and if anyone had a theory as to why he hated loud noises, they weren’t forthcoming.

“You got cleared, Mills. If I were you I’d watch that mouth of yours. Else you’ll get a reassignment. And none of you go imagining that I can’t.” the glitter subsided, and a silent breath was released by the men.

“Now, first things first, we have to establish a place for the radio, send men out to establish contact with Underground members in the region, and get into the Kommandant’s good books.” Their commanding officer glanced around at the faces, and settled on Anderson.

“Anderson, I’m led to understand you worked in the coal mines. You trained in radio operation as well?” yeah, the man turned out to not be as stupid as he looked. Even got into Barracks 5. Carter couldn’t help but hate him on principle, mostly because now Carter couldn't see the idiot in the room; which meant he himself was the idiot. The man started slightly, but nodded.

“I knows how to brace tunnels, what it looks like before a cave-in; pretty good at ciphers, too. What thinks you, Sir?” Carter had to stifle a smile at the man’s Pennsylvanian accent. The Colonel nodded.

“You, Trévares, and Lebeau are going to start work on the tunnel. Here.” The commanding officer paced the length of the barrack, then came to a stop at the bunk shared by Stapleton and Jones.

“But sir, that’s really not a very inconspicuous place. Also, I don’t think anyone can squeeze under the bunks except Lebeau—” the man snarled some French at Jones, who ostensibly didn’t want the entrance to a secret tunnel to be right under his bunk. Or maybe he just wanted a say in the operation. Either way, Hogan fixed him with a look.

“We’re looking for ease of access. Since this is the commanding officer’s barracks, Sergeant Schultz inspects, and I think we can all agree he never has been, nor ever will actively search for an escape tunnel,” the colonel said dryly, eyes twinkling. The men laughed in relief, except Kinch, who frowned.

“I thought this was gonna be the radio tunnel, Colonel. What gives?” Hogan smiled broadly at the man’s observation. It was a little startling; Carter had never seen anything greater than a smirk on the Colonel’s face. Carter glanced at Newkirk. He apparently agreed: the British man looked as though he’d been brained by a brick, gazing absolutely into the c.o.’s face.

“I’m glad you mentioned that, Kinchloe. For that, you get to be my second in command.”

“Guess they hand those out to anyone these days,” Stapleton gave a gormless grin to another smattering of laughter, Smith guffawing earnestly, and the smile was gone from the Colonel’s face.

“Oh, you don’ mean that, Colonel? It was just a question.” The big man was trying to laugh along, pass off the awkwardness. Carter felt a rush of anger, at these stupid, prattling children. He knew what it was like, to get praised and no on believing he could do something right. And it wasn’t impossible to think these brainless men would hold Kinch’s skin against him.

“Why don’t you Sir? Make him your second, I mean,” he stammered at the end, but at least he’d gotten the words out. The laughter died away immediately. Lebeau was nodding.

“Oui, Colonel, I weel, what you say, vouch for hees character? Keenchloe has done much for thees barracks alon, stopped many beatings—” he broke off, the room freezing for a split second. Newkirk looked positively murderous, presumably over the mistreatment by the guards. But he aimed a lot of his vitriol at none other than Hogan.

Then Newkirk cleared his throat. “Aih second the moation, sarh. Sounds a, jolly good plan.” Hogan’s eye twitched at the slang, but nodded slowly.

“Well, despite the fact that this is not Liberty Hall, and all of you have absolutely no say in this whatsoever,” no one reacted to this. The army doesn’t mince words, in any country.

“And I’d like to remind everyone I had the idea first,” here a pretend pout that made everyone laugh again.

“But Kinch you’ve been promoted and in a shocking turn of events, elected to my second in command. Congratulations.” The Colonel saluted the man, who nodded and returned the gesture. Stapleton looked surprised, but uncaring. Smith had a decidedly sour look on his face. Carter gloated internally.

“Back to business. That’s what the game is going to be: our mark is the Kommandant, and Schultz the patsy. Newkirk, you and Carter will be mostly responsible for playing him and the guards, really just collecting and spreading information. We’re going to give Klink a reputation. So the first bit of news you’re going to spread around is under no circumstances are there to be any attempted escapes. No plotting, planning, preparing, I don’t want a whisper to get back to me that some bonehead decided he’d disobey orders and get himself shot. Any time either of you think someone is up to something, you report it, no matter how unlikely it sounds. Got it?” Carter said a yes sir and Newkirk nodded stiffly.

“The tunnel diggers, Anderson, Lebeau, and Trévares report your progress to Kinch. Kinch, you’re going to be aggregating the supplies for the radio, along with Olson. Whitford, Stapleton, and Mills, you’re going to head reconnaissance once we get the tunnel set up. Until then, you’re going to be well acquainted with the cooler,” the three men looked at one another in dismay. At the prompt, Carter recalled a particular afternoon he’d spent lounging outside the disciplinary building; they’d been instructed to deliver the new piss-buckets to the cells, but Newkirk gruffly told Carter to whistle if any guards approached. Newkirk somehow made the cooler escape-friendly. It would be exciting to find out exactly how.

“Carter, you Spiffing and Smith should start a list of useful chemicals to acquire. Tell Newkirk, he’ll pinch what he can, and more, likely as not,” Hogan sent what Carter was absolutely sure was a fond look in the British man’s direction, though it lasted mere seconds. Newkirk missed it though, and smirked lazily at the table.

“The rest we’ll send for by radio.”

“What kynd of chemicals we talkin’ about, Colonel? Jazz to make shampoo? Shoe polish? What?” Spiffing queried. Olson put the back of his hand to his forehead in a mock swoon.

“Oh you read my mind, Jiffy Spiffy! My coiffure has been so out of sorts lately, your special shampoo ought to set it to rights straight away!” the radio operator put on the most ridiculous falsetto, highly reminiscent of Bette Grable. The men roared with laughter, but the pantomime wasn’t done yet.

Spiffing leapt to his feet and rushed to kneel before Olson. “Darling pet, why didst thou not speak sooner? For I would bloody my knuckles on a thousand Kraut cheekbones if only to keep your fine locks in form!” The two men kept at it, making one ridiculous proclamation after another, trying to outdo the other’s voice and language. The men laughed, catcalled, and elbowed one another over the jest. Carter wiped away some tears of mirth and caught a glimpse of Newkirk, who smiled gently over the proceedings, looking somehow wistful. Carter couldn’t help but notice him glance at the Colonel again.

Now it seriously itched at Carter. That wasn’t a look you sent your enemy; perhaps a rival, maybe someone in competition with. Perhaps Newkirk and Hogan had once been friends? It would fit, Newkirk’s reluctance in staying here, Hogan’s fear over the past being dragged up. But some pieces didn’t fit. Like Newkirk’s strange laughter, when the three of them had first met, or tonight when Hogan had brushed the Corporal’s wrist—

“ACHTUNG, ACHTUNG, BEWEGEN, RAUS! RAUS!” the door of Barracks 5 was flung open so forcefully it put a sizable dent in the wall behind it. Carter was sure one of the hinges came loose as well, except he wasn’t looking at the door. He was on the floor, trying to meld with the floorboards, heart hammering fit to burst.

The rest of the men leaped to their feet, shrinking back towards their bunks, defiant, but unwilling to go another round with the guards. The day had been long enough already. Hogan turned slowly to face the guards in the doorway. They scowled at him and flooded the room. Newkirk moved at a jerky scramble to reach Carter. It was a horrible little pantomime of his first day here, pressed into the cold mud-with gunfire-men shouting-confusion-panic thick in the air-

Newkirk finally did manage to reach Carter first, roughly getting him to his feet; but Carter could feel the concern and worry in the man’s hands, the way he didn’t let go of the back of his shirt collar, holding him upright.

“What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?” None of the guards answered, remaining at attention along the walls; they hadn’t even bothered to close the door against the frigid February night. Hogan shrugged, and moved to walk out of Barracks 5.

A guard moved, faster than Carter could track in his panicked and bleary state, to shove at the Colonel’s chest with his machine gun. The prisoners tensed as one. They hadn’t yet seen their C.O. threatened, with actions or words. Carter supposed they’d come to hold the Colonel as something untouchable. Seeing him vulnerable like this—

before Carter could finish his hazy diagnosis, the colonel began to shout.

“You dare come into my quarters, terrorize soldiers who have already been battered and bruised by your hands, refuse to answer inquiries from a senior officer regardless of what army they’re from, and disallow my right to see the Kommandant whenever I want? Get the fuck out of my way right now or I swear to god—”

“Goohd ehevning, Colonel Hogan. I haf to admit, it iss a special plasare to see you riled. Your calm demeanor is ushally so....glacial. Good to see ze warm blooded American iss not dead yet!” Colonel Klink stood calmly in the doorway, riding crop tucked securely under one arm, monocle jammed firmly in his eye. He looked even more like a rat with a pleased smirk tilting the corners of his lips up.

“Youh’ve got yor wish, Hogan. I am at your beck and call. Vhat is it you whish to discuss?” Hogan unclenched his fists and arranged his face into a more amiable expression.

“Goodness, you certainly caught me in a mood. My apologies. This evening call is very kind of you, Kommandant. Care to explain its purpose?” Klink adopted a careless expression.

“Why vould you theenk it is notsing more than a bedcheck? After all, it ees the middle ohf the night.” Hogan gave a put-upon sigh.

“Kommandant, I’m really tired, and the men have a big kickball game tomorrow, and I’d really like to see Barracks 5 advance another round. Can you just tell me, so we can all go to bed?” Klink’s mask of gloating cracked a bit at Hogan’s indifference.

“Well, youh see, we are expecting company tonight, my dear Colonel,” the men couldn’t help but glance at one another over the epithet. Dear Colonel? Olson looked as though he might explode with laughter, Spiffing along with him, and the rest looked as though they’d bit into a lemon. Newkirk looked ready to start throwing punches.

“Parhaps youh are familiar vith Major Hochstetter, of the Gestapo. He vill be arrihving at the camp in less than ten minutes. Youh have oontil then to prepare for a meeting with him. Has for them,” Klink waved a hand at the guards, ignoring Hogan’s incredulous face. Newkirk reflexively tightened his grip on Carter’s jumpsuit collar. Something about that name; if Newkirk got jumpy, it boded ill for all of them.

“I sot you would like a taste ohf vat hees men are like,” an even more triumphant smirk crossed the Kommandant’s face. Carter felt like throwing up.

“Well, I look forward to meeting my first Gestapo personnel and his legion of fuzzy teddy bears. Goodnight, Kommandant.” Klink scowled at Hogan for another second or so, then swept out into the drizzly night, the guards tromping close behind. Mills sidled gingerly to the door and eased it shut, trying his best to refit the hinge to stop it from rattling in the gusts of wind.

“Well, I’m sure our next step is very obvious,” Hogan looked around the barrack.

“Definitely need a door-watching rotation.” Carter giggled, rather hysterically, once before Newkirk clamped a hand over his mouth. The Colonel’s lips twitched in a sympathetic smile.

What fresh hell awaited them next?


	4. Chapter 4

The men took their colonel’s suggestion to heart, and told Jones to watch the door as soon as the colonel departed for Klink’s office. Kinch looked around at the men.

“You heard the colonel, our jobs start as of now. Doesn’t matter he’s not here at the moment. He won’t be happy when he comes back and sees we’ve had our thumbs up our asses. Anderson, Trévares, Lebeau, get to work on removing the planks. Let me know if there are any plumbing issues. Stapleton, start teaching your partners some phrases. Carter, Spiffing, Smith, Olson, let’s start on those lists,” Hogan’s brand new second in command issued the orders with calm efficiency. Carter silently thanked heaven that the men started moving, no questions, no hesitations. The only moment of friction was Newkirk, who still had a death grip on Carter’s collar, staring at Kinch.

“If yah down’t mind, Kinch, eid like a word with me friend Carter here, won’t take a mo’ of your time,” except Newkirk didn’t really give Kinch a chance to say anything before he was tugging Carter towards the Colonel’s room. The second in command gave a short nod before returning to the four other men grouped at the table. Newkirk deposited Carter on the bunkbed and swung the door closed. 

“What is it, Newkirk? Why is that Gestapo Major such a big deal?” Newkirk turned a pitying eye on Carter, then sat on the bed next to him.

“’E’s one o’ the nastiest buggers you ever come across. Takes what he wants, in Berlin, yes ‘e does, treats ‘is pris’ners however the fancy strikes. Down’t have much education, but ‘e knows a profit when ‘e sees one.” Carter felt vaguely sick, his own memories still poisoning him, leaching at his safeguards and barriers, and now this, their Colonel mistreated, shoved off to meet with a sadistic madman, apparently.

“Ei only wish ‘e were a madman, then ‘e wouldn’t be in the position ‘e is. But ‘e’s not mad, quite clevah, actchually.” There were Newkirk’s mind reading skills, all over again.

“How, how do you know all this, Newkirk? You fucking grew up in Portsmouth, how the hell do you know about this Hochstetter man?” He was more frustrated than angry, but Newkirk looked contrite.

“Ei guess ei migh’ as well tell ya, mate. Ei’m naowt, what you’d call, regular service. After the Traitty of Versaille, when ei was a fresh young lad, they put me in intell’gence gatherin’. Though it’d be a good place for a young bloke who got easily inta trouble. Well, they was wrong. Really wrong,” Newkirk smiled at the last sentence.

“Mye trouble makin’ tapered off like, but it just ment me mind got moar cunnin’. So now, ei’m not jast a tool, but a threat to boot.” Carter’s head was swimming. It wasn’t like Newkirk to volunteer information, much less personal information like this.

“So lemme get this straight. After the last war, you joined up, and they put you in the spy branch, and that’s how you found out about Hochstetter? Why are you telling me this?” Newkirk looked even more contrite. It was almost scary. “Yah cursed. Yah never do thet, unless yor good and riled. Ei haven’t been completely truth’ful, now have ei?” Carter shrugged.

“I knew you knew stuff that doesn’t exactly come with basic trainin’. But it wasn’t any of my business. What did you mean by a ‘threat’?” the older man looked chagrined at the question, but replied.

“Ei know yor already keepin’ a lot o’ secrets, Cahter, but keep just one moar. Ei’m wondrin’ if maybe I dint end up here on accident, yah know what Ei mean? Thet somebodies decided Ei was better off locked away somewhere. Not in London, makin’ trouble, nor in the air, where me gray matter could get blown away, ‘long with lotsa secrets.” Carter hunched, doubled over, at that. Way too close, way too close, way too…

“Whoa, Cahter, talk to me mate, wot’s the matter? Yeh look like yah seen Banquo’s ghost!” Newkirk was in front of him, grasping his shoulders and trying to look into his face. Carter couldn’t help but choke a laugh at the Shakespeare reference. He shook his head though.

“Nothin’, it’s fine. I won’t tell anyone, unless it gets bad and then I'll go straight to the Colonel. You won’t be able to stop me, ‘cause I know you’ll try and be all nonchalant and ‘I’ll handle it myself’ but that’s just stupid because two heads are better—” Newkirk shook his head in resignation.

“Eih got it, Cahrter. It’s olright though, Colonel Hogan already knows. Bin doin’ his job fer a while. Not as long as me, but. Yah got no protests on mye end.” The two of them were silent for a little bit, studying the small shelf of books the Colonel had. Carter got up to examine them, confident that Newkirk wouldn’t care. The man was a spy, after all. Colonel Hogan had a Shakespeare anthology, a book of Walt Whitman poetry, several books on war, a bible (though Carter couldn’t help but notice it was less thumbed than the others), and several murder mystery paperbacks.

“How did you meet the Colonel, Newkirk?” the corporal shifted uneasily, not meeting Carter’s gaze as Carter turned back to question his comrade. Newkirk dug into his pocket for a cigarette, lighting it briskly and efficiently, puffing on it as though it were his last.

“Baout ten years ahfter Ei joined. Colonel wasn’t ‘colonel’ yet, a major, jus’ like our visitor tonight. He was liasin with London, mostly fer appearances, cause back then, the States didn’t give a bloody fuck ‘bout us an’ what Hitler was tryin’ ta do. But ‘e was very keen, ouhr Colonel. Kept pokin’ and pryin’ and askin’ all the wrong questions. Really, with ‘is brain, ‘e shuld be a gen’ral right now. But ‘e ain’t. Naowbody likes the nosy ones.” It was a reverse of that first day in the barracks. Carter watched steadily as Newkirk refused to meet his eyes, staring resolutely down at the smoke in his hand.

“Thet’s all yor getting’ out o’ me, mate, cause thet’s really all thet story’s got to it.” Carter briefly, for just a split second, toyed with the idea of ordering Newkirk to tell him the rest of the story. But Carter remembered himself, scolding that Newkirk had just divulged a number of secrets to him. Better to wait until the corporal wanted to explain himself, without coercion.

“Better get back. Kinch looked anxious to start.” Carter volunteered hesitantly. Newkirk didn’t move.

“Ei’ll stay ‘ere for a bit. Down’t have much of a job at the mo’, do Ei?” Carter nodded, and turned to leave. The bunk creaked as Newkirk propped himself against one of the supports, smoke curling out of his mouth, thick and pungent. Carter still wanted to understand Newkirk’s secrets, but a little kernel of fear was planted next to that need. He was absolutely sure that discovering answers would radically change everything in the tiny little world of the prison camp.

The tunnel men managed to pry up several floorboards using the slats of Jones’ bunk. No one cursed shitty German engineering anymore. They did in fact run into several pipes immediately after, and Kinch announced they were water pipes, so they’d either have to find an opportunity to rearrange them, or find a different spot. Carter thought he heard Newkirk mutter ‘rat bahstid’ from the Colonel’s office when the men give groans of frustration.

Olson and Kinch’s list was easy, just scrap metal and a few specific bits for a radio. Smith, Carter, and Spiffing had a lot harder time, unsure of what exactly this mission was going to entail. Eventually the list included, among other things, chloroform, acid, penicillin, nitro glycerin, and other medicines that Smith said would be beneficial for the whole camp, not just the mission.

At some point, Newkirk got up and relieved Jones at the door, and at two o’clock, gave a sharp whistle.

“Look bright lads, our fearless leader returns.” He drawled. Lebeau frowned at the British man from where he was fixing the hinge of the door.

“Youh should not ree-fer to ze colonel as such. He weel do many sings for us while we are heer.” Newkirk opened his mouth, but Hogan chose that moment to fling open the door, almost hitting Lebeau in the face.

“Anderson, Trévares, get that covered, now! And scatter, the rest of you. Kinch, give me the lists. You coded them, correct?” Kinch nodded as a mutinous but silent Lebeau shut the door.

“Yessir. Olson’s one of the best.” Hogan grimaced as he folded the slips of paper and secreted them in his jacket.

“Only the best.”

“Colonel, what’s going on?” Kinch asked in a much lower tone. The two men retreated to the Colonel’s doorway, as an unenthusiastic game of smear began and several men pulled out bibles or other books. Lebeau busied himself with a coffee pot, and Carter pulled out his notepad, planning to write a letter to his brother, but ended up doodling.

“We’re receiving company. The Major has a very special delivery to make to our barracks.” Carter could see, through the shadows of Lebeau and Whitford’s bunk, that Hogan was very grim indeed.

“New prisoner?” Hogan nodded once.

“Sir, I understand that this is a game of information, but what I do and don’t know could—” Kinch began, but the other man cut him off.

“You are overseeing the construction of this outfit, and you’re to be the head radio operator. I don’t see how much more in the loop you could be,” the response was terse but reassuring. Kinch looked at his C.O. for a moment, then nodded.

“Yessir.” Then, for the third time that night, the door to Barracks 5 was thrown open with a crash. It was a repeat performance, except these guards were dressed in black, instead of the winter blue of the camp Luftwaffe guards. Carter clutched at his notebook, sweating and wishing he could get some peace and quiet one of these nights.

A short, rattish man strolled in, taking care to observe his surroundings completely before deigning to look at the prisoners inhabiting it. Colonel heaved a sigh.

“Evening to you again, Major. Come to make good on your promise?” the man sneered at Hogan, and Carter could imagine the man’s whiskers (if he’d had them) bunching and twitching as well. The new official rat had to be Hochstetter. Klink couldn’t even compare to the waves of arrogance, coldness, and craftiness rolling off this man.

“That will not ever happen, Colonel, I hope you understand. No, I am merely giving you this gift. Have fun.” Two more soldiers stormed in, dragging a limp and unresponsive form between them, bag shoved over his head. He wore a baggy and ill-fitting jumpsuit, utterly filthy, like Newkirk’s had been on the truck ride to the camp. The men tensed, in sympathy with the battered looking form. The soldiers threw him to the floor, face down then filed out behind their major.

It was silent for a minute, everyone staring at the inert form on the floor. He didn’t stir, didn’t make a sound. Lebeau broke the silence with the shutting door, newly repaired hinge squeaking in protest.

“Smith, get your kit.” The colonel’s voice was arctic, biting through their confusion and fear.

“Yes, sir.” Smith answered, scrambling across the room. Mills and Olson crept to the figure and managed to roll the unknown prisoner over. Still no sound. Olson reached for the string securing the bag around the man’s neck. It fell away, and they carefully pulled the offending burlap off his head.

A collective gasp went around the room at the sheer lack of unmarked flesh on the man’s face. Both eyes were swollen shut, great rings of black and purple glimmering dully in the lamplight. Methodical cuts marched across his cheeks, criss-crossing in a disturbing pattern; one cheekbone was visibly broken, terribly swollen and bruised. His lips were nothing more than mounds of blood and skin, cuts angling into the corners of his mouth.

But as Carter looked, and looked again, there was something about the shape of the face, the delicate slope of the nose (despite being broken) and brow. He felt a plummeting sensation, a lot like on his last flight. Something was off here. He just couldn’t figure what.

Smith hurried back over, kit in hand, for all the good it would do. Barely enough bandages and antiseptic cream left after the rest of Barrack 5’s injuries. He stopped short on seeing the new prisoner’s face, gave a foul curse, and bent down.

“Open his suit, let's see what other damage there is.” Olson and Mills set to undoing the buttons and pulling the fabric away. But when they did…

“Jesus Christ!” The whole barrack gasped once more. The opened jumpsuit revealed breasts, bound to the point of cruelty, the material stained with more blood and dirt. Carter gaped, probably like the fish he and his brother used to catch in the river near their house, at the too obvious curves their new prisoner possessed. He found his voice after a moment.

“Sir? That’s, um, that’s not a man.”

“Carter? Shut up. Olson, Mills get… her up and onto my bunk—”

“Sir, I must protest that. At least, for a few minutes. It would be dangerous to move her without knowing the full extent of the injuries. I can’t even tell if she’s conscious.” Hogan’s hands bunched into fists once more, but relaxed.

“Very well. Just be quick about it.” Smith didn’t even bother to reply. He was already running careful and experienced hands along the woman’s form, face contorting into a frown whenever he found something.

“The injuries are non-life-threatening. Get her to a bed, but be gentle. She’s still aware.” Smith motioned at the two soldiers, who slid their arms beneath her armpits and knees. The victim gave a gargle of pain, mouth falling open to reveal bloodstained teeth, though surprisingly she wasn’t missing any. The two men shuffled to the Colonel’s room, carefully avoiding the stove and other obstacles.

Carter stared at Newkirk, who was still frozen by the door. He looked back, and for the first time, he saw bewilderment written on the corporal’s face as well. Newkirk shrugged helplessly, and motioned for Carter to stay where he was. Olson and Mills practically ran back out of Hogan’s office, shutting the door on Smith and his unexpected patient.

Hogan and Kinch stood in front of the door, as if someone was going to charge the door. The men stared blankly at their commanding officer, wondering if they were going to get an answer for this unexpected intrusion.

“Well, we might not be getting a famous person to occupy that bunk, but it’ll certainly be an unusual one,” Whitford said quietly from the corner.

“I would give you any information I had, gentlemen, but you are in the same dark, deserted patch of woods that I am. Tell you this though. Do not. Touch. A single hair. On her head. Is that clear?” the colonel’s eyes took on the same ferocious glitter as before, daring anyone to object. The soldiers shrank from him, but a solid chorus of ‘yes sirs’ echoed around. 

\------

After the dire pronouncement, Hogan shared a look with his second in command, then slipped quickly and gracefully into his own room and shut the door with a snap. Kinch looked over the rest of the men.

"We've done everything we can, for tonight. Tomorrow, we take a crack at those pipes, figure outta way to dispose of the dirt, and win the kickball game. That clear?" the room was silent, and where Carter was positive he would have said something in support for his friend (he hoped), there was nothing. Carter couldn't even un-clamp his hands from his paper. Then the Lord almighty sent an answer to Carter's prayers, in the form of a tiny Frenchman.

"Oui, ahnd zen wee shall feest, eh!? Veectory shall be ouhrs!" Lebeau darted to the stove, putting a foot on it and raising a victory sign. A gust of laughter came from the rest of the men, but Carter saw that the tension in Kinch's shoulders didn't lessen.

Normal murmuring and clattering of bedtime preparation began. Carter still couldn't move; despite what people thought, that crazy people couldn't know that they themselves were crazy, he knew damn well what was wrong with him. Classic shell-shock. A wonderfully persistent, unpleasant case. With periods of mind wandering and fear of loud noises. He knew he was crazy, was just gonna snap one of these days and heaven help the sorry guy he fell apart on. Just tears and screams and hair-tearin'--

"Come on, Carter, I know your mom dint teach you to sleep in your boots. Maybe at bootcamp they did but I think we can relax tonight." Kinch's quiet baritone cut through Carter's spiraling thoughts. He jerked his head up to look his bunkmate in somewhere-near-his-eyes-but-not-quite-because-he-really-couldn't-handle--

"Carter?" Kinch asked again, softer this time. Carter finally noticed that nearly everyone was in their bunk, and Kinch had his sleep shirt on.

"Yer right. My momma's fastidious about that." Carter's voice finally crept out of his mouth, sounding worn and broken. Kinch looked him over, but finally nodded. Carter couldn't say this happened for sure, as he was still avoiding looking at the second-in-command, but that's what the corner of his vision told him.

"I know a lot of people will be saying this to you in the future, but, stay hopeful, Andrew. We can make it through this," Kinchloe advised, eyes now boring into Carter's face. Carter imagined this would be true, but the wall, the insurmountable trouble he kept running into, was that the future was such a very long time away. But, he was kinda curious as to why Kinch said that to him. He finally uncurled himself from his bed.

"What makes you so confident, sir?" he asked, tucking his writing materials away, and pulling out his own (relatively) clean pajamas. When Kinchloe didn't respond right away, Carter looked at him again. The man was smiling wide, a genuine mirth and warmth behind it. Carter stared, not recalling a single time before now that the big man had smiled. At least, not a real smile.

"Well 'cuz I'm here aren't I?" the man replied. And with that he scrambled up his ladder, calling a soft goodnight to the rest of barrack 5. Carter said goodnight in reply. Kinchloe was a swell guy; he was right, they would all make it through. Though Carter still wasn't sure what state they'd be in by the end.


	5. Chapter 5

  
The next morning, no one spoke of the woman laying in the Colonel's office, who was presumably still alive, despite Smith's grim face at breakfast. No one except Mills dared ask him for details in the crowded mess hall, knowing well enough they had to carry on as if nothing had happened. Smith snapped at Mills to 'shut the fuck up' and returned to his breakfast. Carter looked at Newkirk, who sat across from him, and Newkirk raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Ah think if you 'ad to spend all bleedin' night patchin' up someone 'alf-dead, you'd be a mite peevish," the British man said quietly. Carter nodded and moodily stirred his abominable oatmeal, wishing for his ma's grits and gravy.  
  
"I know I would be," Whitford chipped in from next to Carter. The man's bulk made it difficult to forget that one was sitting next to him, but it took Carter a moment to figure out who'd spoken. When he did, Carter looked at the man.  
  
"You ever hafta do something like that, sir?" Carter inquired. He still knew next to nothing about the hulking man even after spending a month in close quarters, but tacked on the 'sir' as the man was older than him. Newkirk, for all intents and purposes, was studiously eating a piece of bread, not listening to the conversation at all. But Carter knew better at this point.  
  
"Not onna human. I was a veterinarian, large animals. When it's calving season, got a whole lot of rips and tears to stitch up," the man replied, then spooned a huge mound of oatmeal into his mouth. Carter couldn't help but giggle, remembering his first impression of the man as a cow. Whitford looked at him strangely.  
  
"Sorry, nervous tic," Carter said hastily.  
  
"Nah, I know what you was thinking. I look the type to be caring for cows and such," Whitford replied calmly. Carter felt as though he'd been punched in the heart. Newkirk glared at him from across the table.  
  
"Well-yeah. Wow. You have the same freaky mind-reading skills as Newkirk," Carter admitted. Newkirk and Whitford looked at each other.  
  
"No. You just leave everything on your face for people to read, like a big pushover," Whitford told Carter. Newkirk laughed out loud, and half the mess hall stared over in their direction. He immediately smothered his glee. Carter could only feel put-out.  
  
"Okay, we traded insults, all's even. We swell?" Carter asked with as much bravado as he could muster. Whitford smiled a little, but nodded.  
  
"Good."  
  
"Alright, so the water main that needs to be turned off is in a shed behind the supply building. Newkirk, what do we got in the way of people to help us with the problem?" Kinch muttered to the British man as they stood in the lineup for their next turn to kick. Carter was stretching his quadriceps behind them, honestly hoping his youthful days of kickball would come back to help him. He leaned out a little further to take a look at the supply buildings and the little shack across the make-shift kickball diamond in the common area. The shack was sandwiched between the two supply buildings. He could definitely get the ball that far.  
  
"Y'know I bet I could kick the ball that far!" Carter gestured towards the buildings. "Who wants to bet me? A bar of soap says I can get it that far," he offered cheerfully to the men behind him. Most grumbled, but Olsen played along.  
  
"Two bars says you can't!" Olsen shot back, grinning widely. Carter silently straightened and held out a hand to seal the deal.  
  
When he turned around, Newkirk and Kinch were staring at him. "What? Just a friendly bet, ain't no harm in that!" Carter protested. Kinch and Newkirk looked at each other for a moment.  
  
"Y'know waht, Cahter, I think it's pehrfect. Naow all yeh have to do, is kick that bloody ball over there, then turn off the wahter for us! You know how a water main works, right?" Newkirk slung an arm around Carter's shoulders, grinning. Kinch was nodding as well, and motioned for one of the spectators to come over. The young man had to be 17, if a day, and looked eager to carry out any order Kinch might give him.  
  
"Wait a darn second, I didn't-what-well sure I know-but-!" Carter sputtered.  
  
"Go to barracks 5, tell Lebeau or Trevares this, word for word: 'we've got some low-pressure issues.' You got that? Then come back with a canteen of water for me," Kinch instructed the young private, who nodded and jogged off. Carter's mouth snapped shut. Well. Might as well take the bull by the horns.  
  
"Well gee, I guess I can do it. Should I turn it back on?" Carter asked. Newkirk grinned even wider, if that was possible.  
  
"That'll be the best part of the trick, Cahrter. See, Schollen and Wellman finished maint'nancin' that water line not twenty minutes ago! Guess they don't know their own 'eads from 'oles in the ground, eh what?" Newkirk explained, shaking his head. Carter stared at his friend for a moment, trying to understand how two engineers could be so bad at their jobs. Newkirk sighed.  
  
"Cahrter, we're gonna blame the lack of water on 'em," Newkirk explained patiently.  
  
"Oh! That's genius Newkirk!" Carter exclaimed. Newkirk shook his head.  
  
"Tell that to Kinch, 'e's the one who came up with this barmy scheme. I just stole 'im the maintenance rosters," Newkirk said with pride. Kinch gave Carter a small smile.  
  
"You up to it Sergeant?" Kinch asked before stepping up to the plate. Carter nodded. He and Newkirk quickly came up with a script. _That's really what it's like,_ Carter thought giddily. _Like being in a play, but never getting to rehearse your lines._ Carter shivered with anticipation, but he knew there was a high chance that he would be accused, not the two engineers  
  
"Ready mate?" Newkirk asked, just like Kinch, as he stepped up to the plate. Kinch had knocked the ball wildly towards the water tower, and was tagged out easily. The tall man jogged to the back of the line, and Carter gave him a nod. Newkirk sent the ball sailing in a beautiful arc over the heads of the outfielders, jogging leisurely to second base, the closest to the target.   
  
He stepped up to the plate, crouching to evaluate the pitcher, a massive man from barrack 3, he was fairly certain. The man rolled his eyes. "Hey I have a bar of soap bet on your pitch, this is serious now!" Carter called, indignant. This time the entire line of men on his team laughed. The pitcher scowled, but let loose the ball.  
  
  
THWOCK.  
  
  
  
Carter beamed as the ball shot far and away over the outfielders' heads, arcing neatly between the supply buildings, and disappearing into the gloom. The groans of the opposing team (and Olsen) were deafening, along with the cheers of his teammates, but no one moved to get the ball. Carter noticed these things peripherally, as he was too busy rounding home.  
  
"Gee fellas, sorry about that. I'll go get it for you!" He laid on his southern charm, praying the guards wouldn't stop him. His heart beat at his ribs as he neared the supply buildings, the guards eyeing his approach.  
  
Before they could say a word, Carter slipped between the buildings. He couldn't see the ball; that kick must have been better than he thought. He quietly exulted in his kickball prowess as he cracked the door to the shack, praying Schollmen and Wessen really were done with their maintenance. He breathed out, the shack empty but for the metal pipes and pressure valves of the water main. He got to work.  
  
Just as he managed to rip the ligature out of its housing, he heard Newkirk's voice drifting from the direction of the kickball diamond. "Cahrter wold loose 'is bloomin' 'ead if it wernt attached to 'is neck! I'll go find 'im." Carter shoved himself to his feet and slipped out of the shack. Newkirk was just stalking down the ally, and the two guards had followed seconds later.  
  
"There yeh are, Cahrter! We need the bloody ball if we want tah finish this game, eh?" Newkirk called out in irritation. Carter took a deep breath. This was the risky part.  
  
"Well sure Newkirk, but, I found this on the ground over here, and it looks kinda important, wouldn't want it to be forgotten, y'know? Do y'all know what it is?" Carter directed this at the guards, shoving the 'found' ligature in their faces. They looked at one another for a moment.  
  
"Kohm bahck to ze field, we vill take cahre of zis," one grunted. Carter opened his mouth to protest, palms suddenly sweaty and mind racing with 'not enough time!' But they were saved by distinctly French shouting.  
  
"You filzy dogs! You shut us up in heer, and you dehprive us of watair? How might I cook ze victoree meal wis no watair?!" Lebeau shouted. The guards startled and hurried towards the shouting. Newkirk took the opportunity to punch Carter good-naturedly in the shoulder.  
  
"Ow!"  
  
"Good work mate,"  
  
The two ambled away, now actually looking for the kickball. They finally found it near the mess hall, a guard toeing it cautiously. He immediately stopped when Carter and Newkirk came up to him.  
  
"Thanks ol' chap, we need that!" Newkirk proclaimed cheerfully. The guard looked at him blankly. Newkirk sighed as Carter stooped to pick up the ball. The clamor from the kickball diamond was now loud enough that they could hear it again, could even pick out Colonel Hogan's voice. Carter clutched the ball nervously, praying that the Colonel could quell the real outrage of the other prisoners; he didn't want new nightmare material.  
  
As the two of them reached the kickball diamond, the man of the hour strolled into view, unruffled by his men swarming him to explain what had happened. The two hapless guards stood around, weapons half raised, unsure of who to threaten to make it stop.  
  
"ALRIGHT THAT'S ENOUGH, ARE YOU SOLDIERS OR SHEEP?" Colonel Hogan shouted and the men immediately were silent.  
  
Carter took a step back, stunned; not because the Colonel yelled, that was par for the course in the military, but because the Colonel had never shouted like _that_ before. _He has the voice of a king,_ Carter thought distantly, memories of all the fairy tales he'd been read at bedtime rushing in with a vengeance. _A good king is one who would fight through hell and back to save the day,_ his mother's voice spoke to him across the years. Carter felt such a great pang of homesickness he wildly imagined he might never move again; he would just stand on this foreign soil until vines grew up around his feet and his body turned to stone he was so paralyzed by the ache of loss in his chest.  
  
Desperate to bottle his emotions back up, Carter glanced at Newkirk for distraction and found the British man smiling. It was not his joking, sarcastic, or even polite smile: Newkirk's eyes glittered with a fierce hunger, eyes riveted to the American colonel. Carter's breath caught in his throat. He'd never seen anybody look at anyone like that, like maybe they couldn't live if they didn't have that person in their lives, that they'd do a whole lotta damage to be with that person...  
  
"Will someone please tell me what's interrupted the semi-finals of the Stalag 13 kickball tournament!?" And gone was the steel and fire from Colonel Hogan's voice, replaced with mild reproach and deeply ironic smile.  
  
"Newkirk," Carter breathed, still staring at his friend. Newkirk met Carter's eyes and said nothing; he didn't need to. Everything was written on _his_ face, for once.  
  
"Mon colonel, zehr is no watair in ze barracks!"  
  
"Sir, I tried to fill this canteen for Sergeant-"  
  
"A man needs to brew coffee around here!"  
  
"There's no water?" Hogan exclaimed in mild outrage, eyes briefly flicking in his and Newkirk's direction. Kinch moved up next to his commanding officer.  
  
"Nossir. Maybe we should check on the water main?" Kinch suggested.  
  
"Not a bad idea. What do you say, gentlemen?" Hogan directed this question at the guards. The prisoners shifted restlessly as their captors considered the request.  
  
"Jah, it vould not hurt-"  
  
"Nein! Erinnern Sie sich an die beiden durch den Schuppen? Der Dumme fand etwas," the other barked. Carter automatically looked at Stapleton for a translation, or at least some idea of what the guard had said. He was confused at Stapleton repressing laughter. He couldn't wonder anymore when Newkirk pinched his side and hissed 'incoming!' in his ear. The two guards were shoving through the crowd towards them. Thankfully Hogan was right on their heels.  
  
"You! You es tha von who found ze thing, what wass it?" The first guard loomed over Carter.  
  
"Oh! You mean this? Well, I found it right outside that shack over there. Maybe it's important, but I dunno what it's got to do with-" the guard cut him off by grabbing his arm. Carter yelped, and he wasn't acting.  
  
"We shall see Kommandant, you and you. Come!" The guard started pulling Carter away, while Newkirk was nudged forward with the muzzle of the other guard's gun.  
  
Just when Carter had started to resign himself to ten days in the cooler, the Colonel magically appeared in front of them.  
  
"Gentlemen! I agree, we should see the Kommandant about this serious issue, but I believe we can get there on our own steam. Newkirk?" Colonel Hogan offered an arm to the British corporal. Newkirk looked utterly gobsmacked for a minute, before laughing and taking the proffered arm. They then strolled amiably towards Klink's office. The guard holding Carter's arm softened his grip in surprise, gawping at the other two prisoners.  
  
"Yeah, I know, quite the pair, right?" Carter said to his escort, who looked back in bewilderment.  
  
  
  
"Whaaaat, there’s no wahter?” Klink exclaimed. Carter leaned back, trying to get out of the line of fire of the Komandant, but it was pretty funny to watch the man glance nervously at the pitcher of water on his desk, like it was about to get up and run off.  
  
“Not exactly, herr Kommandant, just the prisoner’s supply of water. So we thought, before they get too restless…” Langenscheidt trailed off.  
  
“Well, it wouldn’t strictly be the water, they’d be upset about. More like the lack of coffee. Kinch is an absolute grump in the morning without at least two cups!” Colonel Hogan supplied helpfully. Klink scowled at the American.  
  
“Colonel Hogan I didn’t ask for a characterization of one of your men and a useless caffeinated beverage! Now, you, Carter was it? Give me what you found, and tell me where you found it,” Klink snapped. Carter stepped forward eagerly, putting the ligature on top of the battered cigar box on the desk. Klink picked it up gingerly.  
  
“It’s a ligature, sir. Found it outside that little shack between the supply buildings. While I was looking for the kickball, y’see, I managed to hit a great big whopper of a kick, I almost felt like I was back in the school yard! Boy I tell yah, I miss those days—“ the guard that had dragged him in cuffed him over the head.  
  
“Ow, gee whiz! I’m just telling a story. So I felt bad for the outfielders havin’ to go look for it, so I volunteered and—"  
  
“You found this,” Klink finished. Carter nodded, and looked at Colonel Hogan, hoping for a sign that everything was going according to the plan. The man gave him a nod, but his face was a mask. Carter stepped back to stand beside Newkirk, head throbbing slightly.  
  
“I’m not saying we could figure out solid Third Reich technology, Kommandant, on a good day, but Trevares is a dab hand with all things metal. Could get it all up and running for you no problem,” Hogan offered politely, like a seasoned salesman. Carter wondered for a moment if that’s what Hogan had been, back in the states.  
  
Klink jabbed a finger at the American.  
  
“Ah! Don’t try your flattery with me, Colonel. This is obviously a trick to stir up the prisoners, incite them to riot. I will not stand for this! You thought you could fool me into giving you access to tools, to the compound! Ridiculous,” Klink shouted.  
  
“Colonel Klink you wound me! All I wanted was to fix our water problem, and you go accusing me of something as ridiculous as that,” Hogan said plaintively. Klink crossed his arms.  
  
“Oh really, so ‘ridiculous’. The goal of every Allied prisoner is to escape! It is your only goal. This attempt was…was some sort of test, wasn’t it!” Klink exclaimed. Carter couldn’t look away from the man, watching the gears turn and steam practically come out of his ears. Colonel Hogan sighed.  
  
“Well. You caught me sir. The men and I wanted to see if you’re as clever as all the rumors say you are. Clever Klink they call you in Portsmouth!” Hogan nodded sagely. Carter almost did a double take at the mention of Newkirk’s hometown. Newkirk himself was turning an interesting shade of red, lips pressed tightly together to prevent any laughter escaping.  
  
Klink puffed out his chest.  
  
“Oh? I’m pleased to hear that my prowess in running a Luft-Stalag is recognized even across the Channel! But that doesn’t change the fact you vandalized equipment!” Klink asserted triumphantly. Newkirk made a tiny noise like tea kettle releasing steam. Carter looked in faux confusion at Klink.  
  
“But sir, I really did just find it. I mean, I actually found it earlier than when I said I did, cause we were following Colonel Hogan’s plan but-“ Carter said, hoping his acting skills were cutting the mustard. Klink’s brow furrowed, making his monocle look implanted in his eye socket rather than worn.  
  
“I see, you found the ligature and knew what it was and used it to your advantage. Hogan you are diabolical, but not enough to fool me!” Klink said loftily. Hogan shrugged.  
  
“There are very few men who are as crafty as you, Colonel. Still considering hiring my men to fix the problem?” Hogan asked hopefully.  
  
“No! All the men are confined to barracks until the issue is resolved, and the kickball tournament is disbanded permanently!” Klink ordered triumphantly.  
  
“You are a cruel, difficult man, Colonel Klink. The competition between barracks 4 and 6 was really starting to heat up,” Hogan said mournfully. Carter figured this wouldn’t be that big of a morale killer; other than him all the men hated kickball with an absolute passion.  
  
Klink smirked, and gave Hogan a dismissive salute. The guard pulled open the door and ushered them out. Just before the office door swung shut, they heard Klink speaking into his radio.  
  
“….Schullman und Wessen…”  
  
Carter grinned. Kinch’s plan had worked to a T.  
  
  
  
"Newkirk. Just so you know, I'm not gonna tell anyone," Carter murmured to his friend as they took their turns digging their soon-to-be-tunnel. Newkirk mopped his brow, and resumed filling his bucket, not even acknowledging Carter had spoken. _Well, as long as he knows,_ he thought despondently, also going back to scooping dirt.  
  
"Christ onna crutch Cahrter, stop given' me those looks, Eim not about tah break in 'alf!" Newkirk snapped, five minutes later. Carter startled guiltily, caught in the act.  
  
"You can't blame me for being concerned Newkirk! I swear, I'm not gonna tell anyone! I only figured it out because-" he stopped abruptly. Newkirk stared at him  
  
"Because why, Cahrter?"  
  
"Because I noticed all the little things. Little things that pointed in a bunch of directions but when you put them together, the only way the story made sense was if...if you were in love. With Colonel Hogan," Carter said quietly. Newkirk sighed.  
  
"Yeh alright, yer bloody cleveh. Eim 'ead over 'eels. Ei fancy 'im. 'Owever you wanna say it, 's true. Now keep diggin' or my only goal in this bloody war will be gettin' promoted above yeh and orderin' to keep yor bloody nose out of my business," Newkirk grunted, leveraging a particularly bothersome rock out of the way.  
  
Carter smiled in spite of the threat. That was just Newkirk's way of saying thank you, and he wouldn't have it any other way.  



	6. Chapter 6

  
Being confined to barracks was, of course, a better punishment than they could have hoped for. The rest of the morning and afternoon was consumed with digging out the access shaft (Anderson's words not Carter's) and shoving the dirt into their mattresses. Which only went so far, seeing as the mattresses were flatter than flat, and it would be obvious if any inspection found the prisoners' mattress looking too plump. It was somebody's brilliant idea to mix the dirt with the scavenged straw from the mattresses to use as daubing material in the barrack walls. A little bit of brown paint stolen earlier from the supply sheds, and their barrack was snug and warm, with no one the wiser. Carter felt like a bastard anyway when Kinch shot down his idea to give all the other barracks some of the daubing; what was the point of fending for yourself if you couldn't help out your brothers?  
  
"Dohn't take eet so 'ard. Far worse sings weel be 'appening soon eenough," Lebeau said stiffly to Carter as he stirred the noxious mixture in an empty wooden crate. _Worse stuff has already happened ___Carter thought sourly, shoving more daub into a particularly gaping crack in the wall. "You have your survival manual, I have mine," he told the Frenchman shortly. Lebeau stared at him in disbelief.  
  
"Youh call zat a survival technique, oui? Eet ees zhe fastest way to a guiltee conscience. And a guiltee conscience kills youhr frere. Zhere is noh room for eet heer," Lebeau replied. Carter had expected another one of the Frenchman's prodigious rants, but what he got was a quiet pronouncement. One that sounded like it came from experience.  
  
"I'm not guilty. Just disappointed. Maybe, sometime, after the tunnels are dug, we can tell the other men what we figured out," Carter replied, trying to put as much optimism as he could in his voice. Lebeau gave a snort. "Eef zaht ees what youh cleeng to aht night, go ahead," the Frenchman said with sour finality.  
  
"'Here Lebeau, another load for yah," Olsen said cheerfully, dumping more dirt into Lebeau's crate. He winked at Carter on the way back to the tunnel. Newkirk was chain smoking out of boredom, keeping post at the window of the barrack. It'd been well over six hours since their little drama had succeeded, and there was no sign of Klink or the confinement letting up. Hogan had said he was assuming Klink would wait until evening roll-call before lifting the confinement.  
  
As soon as they'd left the Kommandant's office, their commanding officer had disappeared back into his office with Smith and the unknown woman. During the interminable process of digging, mixing, and stuffing cracks, Carter had entertained himself with imagining who they were and why they were here. Jewel thief? Disgraced mistress of an S.S. officer? Agent of the underground? A Russian spy?  
  
They didn't have to wait much longer. Colonel Hogan stepped out of his office, followed by Smith and then....The Woman. Carter capitalized the words in his head because he could tell, The Woman meant business.  
  
She practically towered over Colonel Hogan, her jumpsuit seemed to be a size or two too small in the arms and shoulders, hair cut in a severe bob at her imposing jawline. But her most striking features were the noticeably absent ones: there wasn't a single mark on The Woman's face. Her nose was large and unbroken, lips plump and uncut, eyes keen and un-blacked. Everyone in Barrack 5 froze, mouths agape, except Trevares and Spiffing still digging in the tunnel. Carter glanced at Newkirk, whose only reaction was a raised eyebrow.  
  
"At attention!" Colonel Hogan barked, and Carter flinched at his C.O.'s terrifying voice, but every man to the last dropped what they were doing and stood at attention. Trevares and Spiffing heaved themselves out of the tunnel  
  
"God's wounds!" Trevares gasped out before he remembered himself and fell into parade rest. Hogan didn't even look at him.  
  
"Men, this is Sergeant Lily McGrath, United States Army. She is now a part of our unit and Operation Cuckoo. Sergeant McGrath had a rather dramatic entrance, but I can assure you she is just another cog in this machine. In fact, her first duty as of now is to take a turn in the Pit," Colonel Hogan ordered, using the somewhat affectionately given name for the tunnel starting to take shape.  
  
Sergeant gave a salute with a tiny smile, then went over to Spiffing. "I'll take that, Corporal," she said. Her voice was unremarkable, on the lower side with a faint Northeast accent. Spiffing wordlessly handed over his canvas sack, too amazed to respond. Then she dropped into the hole in the floor without a backward glance.  
  
"At ease, gentlemen," Hogan said. Behind them a full sack of dirt thumped onto the floor. "My previous warning stands. For now, just try to keep up with her," their C.O. smirked. Mills snapped at Jones to rip open the next mattress, and the spell was broken.  
  
They all tried to keep up, but the rate at which the bags of soil were thrown onto the barrack floor was ridiculous. Soon every gap and draft in the walls were stuffed, and they had to pry up floorboards under the bunks and start dumping the dirt there.  
  
"I-what the hell is going on Newkirk?" Carter asked during a rare minute-long break. Newkirk lit his next cigarette before answering.  
  
"She's a robot, eh? Din't think they'd let 'er go, pers'nally," Newkirk said cryptically. "What? Who's 'they'? She's not actually a robot....is she? Like in Buck Rogers?" Carter stammered. He was fairly certain she wasn't, after all she'd been beaten to a pulp, but the rate she was digging, unaided....  
  
Newkirk punched him in the shoulder, hard. "Bloody hell, 'course she in't. You saw 'er face yesterday. 'They' is the Army of the Yoo-nited States. Ei won't say no more, Colonel 'Ogan will tell us later." Carter rubbed his arm and pondered his friend's words.  
  
"Is it one of those secrets you were talkin' about the other day?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah. One o' them pesky buggers," Newkirk said sourly, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Carter neatly grabbed the smoke and took a drag as well.  
"So? Ain'tcha gonna say-"  
  
"RAUS, RAUS, surprise roll-call! Everyone out!" Sergeant Schultz bellowed, the barrack door swinging open almost taking Newkirk's nose off. The men froze in a rather hilarious tableau, unseen by Schultz as Newkirk had dramatically thrown himself in front of door, clutching his nose.  
  
"Bloody Christ Schultz! You've broken me nose, yore recklessness is alarmin'!" Newkirk howled, and quick as a wink, Colonel Hogan was at Schulz's side. The rest of the barrack frantically stowed their materials away, trying to make as little noise as possible. Carter tried to position himself as best he could to hide the activity.  
  
"Schultz, what's going on, there's a surprise inspection and nose removal today, two for the price of one, is that it? There's a used car salesman in Indiana who'd give you a better deal, and that's saying something!" Hogan scolded the rotund German, who looked bewildered.  
  
"No wahn iss trying to take anyone's nose! No one! Newkirk wass standing too clos! It is not, my fault!" Schultz protested, glowering ineffectively at Newkirk, who was now tipping his head back and sniffling loudly. Behind them, Lil-McGrath, Sergeant McGrath, hauled herself out of the Pit and frantically waved her hands, which were coated in dirt. Carter tried to nudge Colonel Hogan's foot as respectfully as possible.  
  
"Alright Schultz, we get it, time for our surprise inspection. Men, fall out!" Hogan commanded. A veritable tidal wave of men carried Schultz backwards out the door, all shouting cheerfully the man.  
  
Carter almost went with him, but some breeding runs too strong, too deep. A woman should always go first out a room, open the door for her. So Carter waited, studying her as she frantically scrubbed her hands in the sink, eliminating the evidence of their tunnel.  
  
She turned to rush out the door, and came face to face with Carter. "Something the matter, Sergeant?" she asked. Carter could only shake his head mutely. The Woman was rather terrifying  
  
  
  
Kommandant klink stalked the rows of prisoners, stopping and snapping at the men to stand straighter. They complied until Klink's back was turned, then went back to their impression of a bedraggled flock of birds.  
  
Carter was vividly reminded of England in that moment: when he’d had the time to go into the country and see a murmuration of starlings. Back when the idea of flying didn’t send him running to the latrine to empty the contents of his stomach. Carter made a mental note to ask Newkirk that if they made it out of this hell, he'd show Carter around Portsmouth.  
  
“Sergeant, increase this man’s ration by one quarter,” Klink announced, practically in Carter’s ear. Carter snapped out of his reverie. How long had Klink been standing in front of their barrack? Judging by Kinch’s stiff shoulders, a few minutes.  
  
“Me? Sir?” Carter stammered, pointing at himself. Klink gave him a ferocious scowl. “Please shut uhp behfore I change my mind for your dimwittedness,” the Commandant snapped. Carter swallowed hard and congratulated himself on being committed to his role, however inadvertently.  
  
“The rest of the barrack receives one quarter less rations for the next two weeks. That one receives half rations,” here Klink gestured with his riding crop towards Kinch. Carter’s heart sank, picturing how Kinch’s towering frame would look even more skeletal after two weeks of such treatment.  
  
“Colonel Klink, have you ever been to Milwaukee?” Colonel Hogan inquired. Klink gaped at the American, his monocle at serious risk of falling out of his eye. All of Barrack 6 braced themselves for Hogan's plan to come crashing down on their heads.  
  
“Colonel Hogan, I have never heard of a more blatantly made up word than that! Cease this storytelling imme-“  
  
“Kinch comes from Milwaukee, it’s a town in Wisconsin. D’you know winters there are worse than German winters? Curse of being at the same latitude as Scotland,” Colonel Hogan continued conversationally. Klink’s face grew progressively redder as Hogan talked.  
  
“Hogan would you get to the point!”  
  
“Of course Kommandant. Well, my only point is that I don’t know how much disciplinary good it’ll do to deprive Sergeant Kinchloe of food, when he’s been hardened by Wisconsin,” Colonel Hogan finished calmly.  
  
“Yeh know how annoyingly unkillable the Scottish are? Imagine tha’ but ten times more polite,” Newkirk supplied. Carter heard a sound of suppressed outrage from Kinch. He couldn’t be certain but he thought he heard Spiffing and LeBeau snicker.  
  
Klink narrowed his eyes, and Carter couldn’t help but imagine a mouse’s nose, sniffing around for a treat. Or the scent of danger.  
  
“Very well, Colonel Hogan, since you seem to be so intimately acquainted with your men’s weaknesses and…strengths, what would you suggest?” Klink crossed his arms, making the riding crop bob and weave crazily.  
  
“Sir, as their commanding officer I won't-“  
  
“Ah ah! No need to say anything more, you already gave up his weakness earlier today. That man will be relieved of any coffee shipments from the Red Cross, and the commissary will be informed that he will receive no coffee from them,” Colonel Klink announced triumphantly.  
  
Barracks 5 forgot its composure and gasped in horror. Carter was fairly certain Colonel Hogan’s look of chagrin was only half faked; he snuck a glance at Lil-Captain McGrath. She looked entirely bewildered by the entirety of the conversation taking place in front of her.  
  
“I thought that might get your attention,” Klink said smugly. Schultz looked vaguely confused. “Kommandant, does Keenchloe get hiss food or….” Klink waved a hand as if batting a fly, riding crop still drunkenly bobbing under his arm.  
  
“Food yes, coffee no. Now, on to bigger fish…” Klink strolled down the line. Schultz mouthing his commanding officer’s words, face scrunched in concentration. As soon as his back was turned, Kinch slumped in what Carter assumed was relief. Carter gently pressed his elbow to his superior’s arm, hoping the gesture of support was received. When Kinch pressed gently back, Carter felt the perpetual knot in his chest loosen.  
  
“Captain McGrath. The first evidence that Americans understand what ‘utility’ means; in times of war, even females must be used for the good of the motherland. However, this does not mean favorable treatment! Step forward,” Klink commanded. McGrath’s face betrayed no emotion as she smartly stepped out of line.  
  
Before anyone had an inkling of what was about to happen, a guard slipped from behind Klink and smashed a baton over McGrath’s head. The Captain went down on one knee with a gasp of pain. Klink strolled back to stand next to Colonel Hogan, who stared rigidly ahead. Several more guards hauled McGrath into the center of the yard, and set to beating her.  
  
“May I ask the point of this exercise, Colonel Klink?” Hogan asked mildly. Carter couldn’t seem to look away from the silent figure, on hands and knees, the only sound the grunts of the guards and the terrible cracks and thumps from their rising and falling clubs.  
  
“Why not? She will heal,” Klink replied casually. Carter shrank inside of himself, the uncontrollable, instinctive need to go away, escape the awful truths around him.  
  
“ _Captain _McGrath probably heal faster if she’s not dead,” Hogan pointed out. Klink glowered at Hogan. “You think I do not have control over my guards? They know when to stop.” As if they had heard their CO, the awful noises ceased, leaving nothing but the sound of the gusty spring winds whipping through the distant pines. Colonel Klink strode out into the yard and addressed the entire camp.__  
  
“Leave the Captain here. Confinement will resume for another forty-eight hours. DISMISSED!” With that, the guards began to herd the prisoners, mutely and without complaints, back into the barracks.  
  
Carter let himself be guided, by whose hands he wasn’t sure; he wouldn’t be well enough to ask for another hour, staring blankly at the underside of Kinch’s bunk as the men resumed their work.  
  
  
  
McGrath wasn’t sure how long she laid there before complex thinking became a possibility again; severe concussions had the tendency to do that. Her body was a hellish combination of agonizing pain and uncontrollable itching, as hairline fractures sealed themselves, blood vessels mended, and organs repaired damage. The weak sunlight receded and the still-freezing spring night started to fully close in; almost time for bedtime roll call.  
  
A little later she saw of a pair of boots walking towards her in the twilight, the roving searchlights creating a stippled pattern of brilliance around her. The boots were not walking, strolling, her brain supplied. But covered with sharply pleated pants, that meant officer. Commanding officer. Colonel Hogan.  
  
The boots came to a halt a foot away and waited silently.  
  
“Not a good start, sir,” McGrath croaked. She gently probed her gums, in search of broken or missing teeth, but the guards were better than that: leave all the bruising where clothing can cover it up in case of a surprise inspection.  
  
“Agreed, Captain. Any complaints you’d like passed on to the management?”  
  
“Nossir.”  
  
“Colonel Hogan, youh are not to be speaking with the prizner! I will haf to report to Kommandant Klink!” A second voice broke in, anxious and exasperated.  
  
“Schultz, the Kommandant said to leave Captain McGrath here. Now I have no doubt a strapping German like you could pick her up no problem, but I don’t want to spend the rest of the war with my back thrown out,” Colonel Hogan explained patiently.  
  
“Wehl, if you puht it zhat way…”  
  
“You can even stay and watch me talk to the Captain, get to know her yourself! Right McGrath?”  
  
“Yessir,” she replied. The itching and throbbing in her head had finally stopped, along with her arms, so she risked pushing herself up onto her elbows. The ribs protested sharply as she looked up into Sergeant Schultz’s face.  
  
“Youh are a wohman,” the man stated in wonder. McGrath looked at the Colonel, who gave her a Look. “Correct, Sergeant,” she answered.  
  
“I ohnly ask beecause youh war beaten,” Schultz offered apologetically. “I can understand the confusion,” McGrath ground out as she forced herself to roll over.  
  
“Are we in trouble now that Kinch has been cut off, sir?” McGrath asked, trying and failing to not sound too flippant.  
  
“Kinch's coffee addiction has been greatly exaggerated,” Hogan responded dryly. McGrath realized, staring up at the massing clouds, Klink staged this example so she’d recover just when roll call was called again. She would limp back to the line, embarrassed and weak before her ‘fellow soldiers’. If the strongest among them could be felled so thoroughly, what chance did they have?  
  
“Permission to ask a question sir,” McGrath asked. “Granted, soldier.”  
  
“If Hochstetter isn’t going to make me his lab rat, and they haven’t killed me, why am I here?” she inquired. “I don’t mean, sir, why am I in this specific camp, I mean how am I in a camp at all,” she clarified.  
  
Colonel Hogan chuckled. McGrath wished she wasn’t in so much pain so she could tell if the laugh was genuine or not.  
  
“By the grace of some god, probably. Damned if I know, Captain.” Here he crossed his arms and gazed serenely out over the compound. “Schultz do you know who Captain Johann Schmidt is?” The guard guffawed.  
  
“Youh vill haf to be moar specific than that Colonel Hogan! Zeh German army is lousy with Johann Schmidts!” Hogan’s face was occasionally illuminated by the reflected searchlights that did nothing to reveal any emotion on his face.  
  
“Does the name roter Schatel narrow it down?” Schultz choked on his laughter. “Colonel Hogan, dohn’t seh such things! People listzen and talk,” the sergeant trailed off nervously. McGrath continued to stare up at the sky.  
  
“Well people can gossip all they want, because I just observe. And I’ve observed this particular S.S. officer has an incredible passion for the occult and weaponized science,” Hogan explained. The ‘observed’ was obviously in heavy quotation marks. Roter Schatel was the stuff of everyone’s nightmares, an extra bogeyman to scare people into continuing to do nothing and burn their books and throw up their arms.  
  
“Do you want to know who else has aspirations for this incredibly niche career goal?”  
  
“PLEAHS Colonel Hogan, I do NOT wish to know, stohp tehling me your observations!” Schultz begged Hogan, feet shuffling nervously. McGrath wondered if it would rain later, and if that would impede the progress of digging the tunnel too much.  
  
“Alright Schultz, I won’t tell you any more, even if it means you could get a couple extra days leave if you passed my— _your _observations on, to Klink….” Hogan trailed off. It was quiet for a couple of seconds, both McGrath and Schultz contemplating the Colonel’s subtle emphasis.__  
  
“Wehl, as long as—“  
  
“As I was saying, I’m sure you noticed Colonel Klink is having some fun with our newest initiate here, but he doesn’t seem to realize that Major Hochstetter doesn’t want his goods damaged. A man his age has to think about nest eggs, you know, if this whole war thing doesn’t go well….”  
  
“Colonel—Colonel Hogan! I must, ah, prepare for roll call! Go back to zhe barracke, raus! And noh carrying zhe prisoner!” Schultz stammered, but took a moment to say a polite “good evening” to McGrath before hurrying away across the yard. Hogan looked grimly down at her.  
  
“I hope that clarifies some things. Now I’m ordering you to drag yourself back into that barrack, otherwise Klink is gonna give you another welcome week thrashing, and Major Hochstetter will come down on our whole operation like a sack of bricks and then we’re all fucked, understood?” Hogan commanded her levelly. McGrath swallowed several times before being able to speak.  
  
“Yessir. Dragged myself out’ve worse scrapes than this.” Hogan nodded before strolling casually back the way he’d come. It had been the how that had truly bugged her. McGrath knew she was a valuable asset to any Allied operation, especially one as delicate as Operation Cuckoo, but how the brass had known Hochstetter would do what he did, that was the mystery.  
  
Hochstetter had always been too small a fish for Allied intelligence to focus on; to everyone’s detriment obviously if he was colluding with or at least following in the footsteps of Red Skull. Being imprisoned in Luft Stalag 13 was the best and worst place possible: on the one hand she would be hidden from Red Skull, on the other it put the camp squarely on Hochstetter’s radar.  
  
It was a bitter pill, but she understood why her team hadn't been able to save her from the torture, or Hochstetter’s men, or the camp; the minute other Nazis began to ask why a low-level army captain was so competently rescued from the Gestapo it wouldn’t take long for the discovery of her capabilities.  
  
Finally, with throbbing ribs and ruptured spleen, McGrath thumped pitifully on the door to barracks 6, which swung open to reveal the Coal Miner, who hastily stepped away to grant her entrance.  
  
Once McGrath managed to drag her entire self inside, and the door was firmly shut, several of the men leapt to their feet and helped her to her bunk. “M’fine, fine, need some water,” she croaked. A cup was pressed to her lips and she gulped at it. Someone, probably the goofy chemist, spread her blanket over her she was lost to sleep.  



End file.
